i. the lesson of vision.
A window cuts two ways. The more you see, the more vulnerable you are.
There was a laden coconut palm right outside our only unshuttered windows. When the southeast wind blew, we ran from what we saw, and hid, and prayed.
A hurricane is an eye made of wind.
ii. the lesson of wind.
In the tarot, the suit of swords represents the element of air.
In a hurricane, air becomes an edged weapon. It cuts away that which is not fundamental -- shutters, awnings, roofs, any exposed corner, any loose joint, any overhang.
Water, earth, fire -- all other elements are whisked away. They bend to the will of the wind.
Trees fall. Canals flood. Electric cables snap.
The only law is furious motion.
iii. the lesson of power.
Stumble out the back door, squinting in the sunlight.
Turn motor switch to ON.
Move fuel valve to ON.
Engage choke.
Yawn and rub the last of the sleep from your eyes.
Pull rope handle gently until it begins to resist, then pull rapidly. Do not let go. Repeat until motor starts, then gradually push choke lever in.
Breathe deeply, despite the carbon monoxide. Look up at the scattering clouds. Apologize for breaking the stillness of the morning.
Wait until motor has warmed up, then plug cord into socket, ensuring load is within your wattage capacity.
Turn electrical supply switch to ON.
Enjoy the light.