We fear its destruction.  We fear the rage.  We fear the inevitability of cataclysmic eruption.  We shy away, and keep our distance from the gurgling pinnacle.  As the burbling mouth spews blood-hued globules into the sky, we cower and shudder.

We dare not venture close to the heat tinged aperture.  We won’t come close to the fire singed mouth.  We beg and pray that the angry, molten, cantankerous, Ifrit slumbering in the bowels of the mountain, continues his respite, and is not roused of his oft snoring slumber; fearing that if he were awakened, his annoyance would produce bellows of rage, and wanton expelling of molten rock through the gape at the apex of the giant elevation, launching devastating, fiery earth upon the surrounding island paradise.

We live in fear.  We live in fear of the violent, volatile, and virulently, volcanic, vaporizing of our personal, paradise islands of life.  We cower before the churning, burbling inevitability.  We build as far away as we believe possible from the source of the chaos.  We formulate our escape plans, we stock pile our emergency supplies.  We believe ourselves prepared, should disaster strike.  In long, seemingly dormant stages of the volcano, we even believe that the earth beneath us has ceased its chaotic cycle.

But we belong to the islands that we are.  We own the trees, the fern, the bushes that please us and feed us. We own the rocks, the dirt, and the grass that softens our footfalls.  We are the water that flows from the rock, we are the sand the cushions our feet, and we are the mountain that looms high above us.  It is part of us.  Yet we fear it so intensely that we shy away from it.  We try to ignore it from our existence.

However we regard it, eventually this volcano will erupt.  It may only do so once in our lifetime.  It may do so many times.  When it does, it will shower molten destruction upon the island that we call self.  It will burn through the trees like a fireball through a field of dried corn.  It will cauterize fields of wild flower so no bloom will see the sky.  The giant chunks of brimstone will crush and immolate safe structures on the island without care.  And it will burn, and consume, and decimate everything we love.

And then the rage spouting jinn will grow weary within the mountain.  The lava drenched landscape will cool without the continuous flow of heated destruction. The island will have been ravaged, but not totally stripped of trees, water, and shelters.  The magma, that had laid waste to the pristine island, will be found to be nutrient rich.  And in time the soil it once burned upon, absorbs its benefits, and begins to produce even more beautiful flowers.  The bushes and trees that grow from the supercharged soil of devastation produce more, and larger fruits.  And the trees that sprout from the cooled rivulets of churning red rivers yield hardened beams, struts, pillars, and eaves, and thus, more formidable structures.

In time everything heals from the devastation.  And in the aftermath of the volcano, true growth occurs.

Though it may seem perilous to live in the shadow of such a seemingly indiscriminately destructive force, we may actually see this volatility as a long-term, cleansing, and ultimately, healing Vesuvius in our lives.

Though they may seem to be the most difficult things to go through at the time, the most destructive elements or experiences may actually prove themselves to be the most beneficial, and perhaps even, the most merciful.

Humbly yours,

J