There’s a Storm A’ Comin’

There’s a storm a comin’. Yep. We can all feel the hurricane energy today and likely tomorrow on the anniversary of Helene. The air itself feels restless — heavy, swollen, electric. The trees outside seem to hold their breath, their branches tense and waiting. Birds fall silent. It’s that eerie calm before the first gust, the kind that makes your skin prickle and your instincts whisper, brace yourself. I felt it this morning, walking through the mountain mist downtown.

We’ve been here before. The storm named Helene churns on the horizon, but it’s not the first to test us — and it won’t be the last. When Marquee reopened this week, it stirred up memories I thought had settled like silt at the bottom of my mind. Helping a friend set up, I could almost smell the mud and mildew from that last flood, feel the weight of what the waters took. My own artwork — pieces of my vision and hands — were swept away with everyone else’s. Around The Foundry, the destruction still lingers like a bruise that refuses to fade.

And yet, last night, standing in Marquee again, there was something extraordinary. The place was packed — a truly unbelievable crowd. You could feel it: how deeply we all needed that gathering, that pulse of shared breath and laughter echoing between the brick walls. It wasn’t just a show; it was a reminder of who we are. Asheville shows up. Every time. We did it during Helene, and we’re doing it still. When things fall apart, this community picks up the pieces — not waiting for someone else to come save us, but reaching out to one another with muddy hands, open hearts, and hard work. We can do the hard stuff.

That’s why I love this place on earth. Asheville isn’t just where I live — it’s where I belong. It’s a place that holds each other up — artists, builders, dreamers, neighbors. When the power goes out, someone brings candles. When the river rises, someone shows up with boots and shovels. When spirits sink, someone starts a song. And they don’t just sing a song they do it while standing on stilts and juggling. We can make magic on top of it!

It’s hard not to notice how the physical storms and the political ones blur together these days. The climate feels volatile, but so does our country. Both seem to spin faster, fueled by heat — of temperature, of tempers, of too many voices shouting across divides. One storm tears down power lines; the other tears through families, friendships, and faiths. Both leave debris to clean up: splintered wood, broken trust, warped foundations.

We live with that edge now, don’t we? That low hum of uncertainty in our bones. We look over our shoulders — to the sky, to the news — and wonder what’s next. Will the winds rise again? Will the headlines break something else open? It’s exhausting to stay on alert, to wonder when the next blow will land. It’s hard to feel safe when both the weather and the world seem capable of turning without warning.

So what do we do? How do we stay grounded — literally and emotionally — on the anniversary of loss, or in the path of the next storm?

I think of yoga’s tree pose at Asheville Community Yoga. You stand on one leg, the other foot pressed into your thigh, and you’re told to find a single point on the wall to focus on — drishti, the steady gaze. Without that focus, you wobble. With it, even as the floor shifts beneath you, you stay upright.

Maybe that’s the work right now: finding our drishti. Not pretending the winds aren’t real, but choosing what to look at while they blow. Let’s continute to make community our focus. When the wind howls, let our shared care be the deep roots that hold us steady. When fear or fatigue rise, let’s remember the sight of that crowd last night — neighbors, artists, strangers — showing up, supporting one another, standing shoulder to shoulder in a world that keeps testing us.

Storms — both meteorological and political — are part of being alive in this world. They always have been. The question isn’t how to avoid them, but how to keep our roots deep enough to bend without breaking.

So breathe. Steady your gaze. The winds will come and go, but our capacity to stand together — anchored deep and awake — is what keeps us from being carried away. We’ve weathered worse, and we’ll do it again — stronger, wiser, and more connected than before.

Focus on what’s right in front of you: your friends, your neighbors, your community. Let’s keep showing up for each other. Let’s make compassion our calm, and strength our forecast. And let’s make more magic!

Let’s go, Asheville.