The Pacific Storm Dragons 🐉

When storms approach in Hawaiʻi, there is a palpable edginess in the air. It is almost as if the collective hive mind becomes one—people buzzing with unsettling thoughts, uncertainty, anticipation, and a quiet, introspective humility.

Mother Nature has always been a teacher.

She is the force that governs all beings here on Earth. She is in charge. And sometimes, weather systems like these remind us of her strength and her fierceness. They remind us that, despite all of our technology, our homes, our roads, our plans, and our carefully constructed lives, we remain creatures of the natural world.

Hurricanes, especially, remind those of us living in the Pacific that we are part of a small and vulnerable chain of islands. They remind us that reality can change in an instant.

The last two storms have been remarkably unpredictable. From a metaphysical perspective, I have begun to think of them as Storm Dragons.

That is exactly what they feel like to me.

Perhaps others can feel it, too.

In ancient stories, dragons were often elemental beings—creatures of tremendous power who could not simply be reasoned with or controlled. Storm dragons belong to the wind, the rain, the ocean, the thunder. When they arrive, they are in charge. They dictate flooding, waves, wind, and the movement of the Earth. They remind us that the elements have their own intelligence and power, and that plants, animals, and humans are all subject to it.

If you don't believe in dragons, that's fine.

Our ancient ancestors often understood the world through a more animistic lens. They saw spirit and consciousness not only in humans, but in animals, plants, rivers, mountains, storms, and the elements themselves.

Lately, when I look into the eye of a Pacific storm, that is what I see.

A dragon.

I live very, very close to nature.

For the past five years, while slowly building a house on my land, I have essentially lived outdoors behind screen walls. Ninety percent of the time, I absolutely love it. I love feeling like a true creature of the Earth.

At night, I hear the local owls. During the day, I hear hawks calling overhead and bees buzzing around me. I don't hear cars. I hear waterfalls. I hear the great trees moving in the wind. I see the stars.

There is a deep peace in it.

Ninety percent of the time.

The other ten percent happens during storms.

During storms like this one, I long for walls.

I want windows I can close. A solid roof. A warm, dry room. A cozy place where I can retreat from the wind and rain and know that the walls between me and the elements are strong enough to hold.

And perhaps this is exactly why I am building a house.

For years, I have wrestled with the idea that building a conventional home might somehow separate me from the very thing I love most: my relationship with the living Earth.

I have wondered whether moving into a house means moving into a box.

Whether walls might become boundaries not only between me and the weather, but between me and the natural world.

I see so many people living almost entirely indoors, their lives becoming embedded in the lives of walls. Their connection to seasons, soil, weather, darkness, stars, insects, birds, and the rhythms of the Earth can become increasingly distant.

Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with shelter. We need shelter. We need places of refuge and rest.

But I have felt, very deeply, the difference between simply living in a house and actually living with the land.

Living somewhat outdoors has been an initiation for me.

Time moves differently here.

I have learned to notice subtle changes in weather. I have watched the moon, the clouds, the plants, the birds, and the bees. I have felt the Earth pulse beneath my feet. I have sensed the unseen life of this place in ways I might never have experienced if I had spent these years entirely enclosed.

This way of living has changed me.

And now, as the Storm Dragon gathers strength, I find myself standing in the middle of a paradox.

I want a house.

And I don't want to lose myself inside one.

I want safety.

And I don't want to lose my wildness.

I want warmth, walls, windows, and a place to sleep without wondering whether the roof will hold.

And I want to remain a creature of the Earth.

The polarity is palpable.

Then I look to the bees. My favorite teachers.

Bees understand something that I am still learning. They live both inside and outside. They spend their days moving through the world, gathering nectar and pollen, visiting flowers, following the sun, and participating in the immense living network around them.

And then they return home.

Inside the hive, they create warmth. They build wax. They raise their young. They store food. They rest. They protect one another.

They have a nest. But the nest does not disconnect them from the world.

It makes their relationship with the world possible.

Perhaps that is the lesson I have been looking for.

Maybe a home does not have to be a box.

Maybe it can be a nest. I am ready for a nest.

I am ready for a place to rest, to feel safe, to gather myself. I am ready for a cozy house where I can close the windows when the Storm Dragons arrive.

But I am also ready for my days outside—observing beauty, collecting flowers, tending bees, growing food, listening to the birds, and feeling the Earth beneath my feet.

I pray that I can build a home without building a wall between myself and the living world.

I want to remember to sleep on the Earth from time to time.

To walk barefoot.

To grow and gather food.

To sit quietly outside with nothing to accomplish.

To remain curious about the creatures around me.

To listen to the wind.

To remember that I am not separate from nature.

I am nature.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of the Storm Dragon is not that we should fear nature's power, but that we should remember our place within it.

Because hurricanes carry a complicated kind of trauma for those of us who live in Hawaiʻi. We have watched powerful storms come through before and permanently alter communities, landscapes, homes, and lives.

This most recent hurricane has devastated special towns on the southern end of Hawaiʻi Island, including Nāʻaulehu and Pāhala, as well as many other communities and ahupuaʻa throughout Kaʻū. The damage is significant, and we are only beginning to understand the full extent of what has happened.

My heart is heavy thinking about the people of Kaʻū—especially those who cannot simply leave because the roads connecting them to the rest of the Island have been washed out or severely damaged.

While I sit here listening to the wind and watching the storm build, I am reminded of how little control we actually have.

We build.

We plan.

We cultivate.

We protect.

We create homes and roads and systems that allow us to believe, for a moment, that we have mastered the environment around us.

And then a Storm Dragon arrives.

The wind rises.

The ocean moves.

The rivers swell.

The trees bend.

And we remember.

We are not separate from the Earth.

We never were.

We are inside her.

We are part of her.

And sometimes, she reminds us just how small we really are.

Perhaps that is not a punishment.

Perhaps it is a teaching.

Perhaps the Storm Dragons come to remind us that while we may build nests, we must never forget the wild world that surrounds them.

And perhaps, for me, the work now is not choosing between the house and the Earth.

It is learning how to live in both.

To have a nest, without forgetting the sky.

To have walls, without losing the wild.

To come inside when the Storm Dragons arrive—

and to return outside when they pass.

xoxo

Jenny

Dragon emerging from clouds, Edo period, 19th century by Katsushika Hokusai.

North Hilo: The beginning of Hurricane Lowell