Some of us have hovered in the eye of a storm as the high speed winds danced around us and laughed like hyenas. Gloating and relishing in our misfortune. Immersed in our ordeal feeling despairing, we grappled to keep hold of hands. Holding us steady as the storm fiercely challenges us and hurls its torment, testing our tenacity and hardiness. In this moment some hands loosen their grip as the gales overwhelm, hitting them with a raw reflection of their own open wound that they have tried to wrap and bound away from and so the breeze bellows and blows them away to a place where they are undisturbed. Those that could hold on, tightly with all their might embrace the tempest, feet firm and steady on the ground rooted in loyalty, and bonded by trust, witnessing the cries and screams. The air smells bitter like saffron with an aftermath of burnt wood; pushing through this odour is a smell that tells me Angels are nearby; jasmine and lilies. Slowly the storm subsides, the ferociousness descends as the winds let go of their aggression and we hover in the hurt and cleanse in the calmness. Alive and free, the distress is over but the experience remains. Looking around we see those faces that matter, eyes filled with the warmness of a desert sun at dawn, hands strong, holding firmly but gently. They know; they have been through the storm too.