Weathering the Storm
This one may feel unsettling at times. If you stay with it—read to the end or listen along—it may help you see your truth and find the courage to share it with others.
You’re invited to read this by yourself, or gather together—and listen to me read this to all of you.
I’ve learned a lot from my good neighbors down the road about protecting ourselves in challenging times—especially when there’s snow in the sky and ice on the ground.
It may seem a little strange, but I love to watch these massive creatures who work so hard to give us the nutrients that feed us over the years, yet are often taken for granted or outright abused and rejected.
Like all of God’s creations, they have a way of knowing how to weather the storm. They teach me a lot—often more than my trusty barometer or the TV weather guy.
Maybe it’s for survival that this hardy bunch comes together—for comfort and warmth.
But in quieter times, I often see them standing alone in the light—keeping their lawn well-trimmed and fertilized. Every now and then, when the grass gets a little thin, they scatter some extra seed—so the roots grow strong and hold firm in all kinds of weather.
After all, these big guys have a hefty appetite.
They don’t ask for much. I sense that they are givers—more than receivers or takers. They keep walking bravely, one by one, doing their jobs, trusting that this is their higher purpose—not knowing when their number will be called for active duty, one that ends well only for others.
I keep learning from my selfless neighbors, who don’t tend to seek therapy—but I suspect they could benefit from it. Any sessions would need to be held out in the field, as sheer size—and our inadequate bathroom facilities—would prevent them from entering my building. No fault of their own.
Although I’d like to be with them longer, it might be hard as they aren't used to this kind of attention.
Group sessions would be a natural on cold days, but I would definitely wear my galoshes and some heavy-duty gear with clear markings—just in case someone nearby is doing a little target practice. If it were legal, I might consider dropping off a few healthy herbivore snacks for the frailer ones who seem to be struggling.
Despite the risks, I want them to know that I care and that they matter—holding them in both my heart and mind. I’ll be their champion. That’s my Core Self and that’s where I stand, even if they don’t feel that way about themselves or me.
Like I tell others in my life, I’ll keep shining my light on them, knowing their own light is there—waiting to be reflected within and between us—even in the faintest glimmer. It may get darker at first, but I hold the hope that it will grow stronger—and glow.
Sadly—I don't know their names and personal histories. They have a home, but it doesn’t give them the love and care they truly deserve. Somehow, they stand together to keep warm when in need, spreading their warmth to others—as well as a few other things a curious visitor like myself could step into.
I’ve thought about becoming vegan, but it just doesn’t feel right—either to them or to myself. My doctor says it would be better to eat fowl, but I sneak in a little of the red stuff occasionally. I guess I’m their employer in a way—but they give me much more than I give them. They help me appreciate my value, and I wouldn’t want to betray their trust.
It would be like betraying myself—and that’s far too great a price for anyone to bear. Even a good labor union doesn’t have the power to protect us in that way—or bring it back once we lose it. Sometimes we have to dig a little deeper to find the treasure buried inside us—treasure we don't yet know is there.
When I say my prayers tonight, I will think of these uncelebrated heroes. I’m grateful that they're standing together as one, and that I’m not standing with them in the cold—knowing a little bit more about myself and them. Sometimes we need to weather the storm to remember our capacity for transformation—and that we matter.
That’s the light they wanted me to see. They just want us to love ourselves in the same way they have devoted their lives to loving us.
I will always hold the light—and I hope that you can do that, too. Even though we’re far apart right now, I hope you know that I’m with you in spirit when I’m warm at home sitting with my sweet wife—looking at pictures of times gone by and those close to our hearts.
I hope and pray that you have good neighbors, too, that remind you of who you are and were always meant to be—especially when the snow is flying and ice is on the ground.
Eat well. Stay safe. Stand tall together. We’ll never be alone, my friend. Maybe a few steers standing around, but no bull. Or at least if there is, they’re the more enlightened kind that aren’t afraid of being vulnerable and tender—real men, I say.
There’s always plenty of bull hiding in the shadows in the big house around the corner—the one with the “Beef for Sale” sign out front.
That hits me hard—tough to digest at the moment. I’m not going to tenderize it just to make you feel better. It seems like a lot of these kinds of signs have been popping up lately. It may sound like I’m angry—maybe a little. I’m just being human and finding my voice.
Some days I feel protective. Some days conflicted. Some days just practical. I suppose it depends on where I am on the road.
Nevertheless, I know that it’s important to keep raising the bar and not give up. Right now we have to seize the moment and make hay, like all good farmers—allowing space for our adaptive capacity to kick in. Although meds may help some, they aren‘t always enough to finish the job, and sometimes make it hard to see the big picture.
Even when it’s cold outside, I know that global warming is real. It’s right in front of us if we’re willing to slow down and open our eyes. Wearing sturdy shoes also helps a lot—not so afraid of walking on the ice.
I wonder if I’ll always remember my special friends as I pass them on the way to the dump—and how it will feel not to see their faces someday. I wonder if they even noticed that I stopped to take their picture. I see that faraway gaze in their eyes like I sometimes see in clients who’ve been traumatized—like they’re looking through me rather than looking at me and feeling my heart.
I’d like to believe that somewhere inside they know that they’re not alone, and they matter. At least I feel good honoring them and what they mean to me—which is a lot. They’re not just a piece of meat. I don't want anyone to feel that way.
As my mom would often tell me, ”It’s the little things that mean the most.” That’s true, Ma. But in this case, let’s not forget about the big things. If we don’t look at the big picture, we tend to get lost in the storm. We also stay stuck in the fear, instead of finding it easier to face the next big one—that the weather report always says will be the worst, or might just blow out to sea. It all depends on the model you’re looking at.
Sounds a little like being a therapist. But, I don’t want to play Russian roulette with people’s lives—keeping my clients in a constant state of fear. That’s a hard way to live, especially if your nervous system is already pretty sensitive. Tread lightly, my friend. It’s not just about the obvious but what the obvious obscures.
Actually, there’s a lot to learn here about the light of invisibility—protecting us during difficult times by bringing us together. And then, finding our own space again—with a deeper connection within and between us.
That’s a healing that can stick—and keeps us taking the higher road. It may feel hopeless at times, but the slower we go, the steadier our footing—and the faster we get there. That way we can walk through the storm together, without getting stuck in a pile of compost, or sliding off the road on a patch of black ice—something I know all about in my neck of the woods.
And if we do, our inner compass can help us find our way back to the path and the bigger road—even in the middle of a storm.
It also helps us remember our own body—the joint pain, the headache that won’t quit, the rhythm of our heart. It keeps the score in a much deeper way than the weather report on TV or our phones.
It’s a model that doesn’t have an agenda or bypass the truth. We don’t have to apologize for slowing down, redirecting the work, and staying with someone long enough to help them connect the dots.
In the end, I hope you won't feel threatened by this courageous group, or any of those standing together—and will stop to wave and show your respect and gratitude—to them as well as yourself.
Time will tell. It’s hard to know for certain if we rely solely on neighbors and friends for updates on the weather—things we can’t always see on our own but don’t want to miss.
Nevertheless, I’ll be checking anyway, since—along with my body—it’s still my most reliable source of information these days. No bull. It comes back to trusting ourselves.
See you on the road. Let’s keep laughing—together. That’s the glue. We all matter.
Now, that sticks. Moo… mooo!
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: Any resemblance to your own life is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.