The Perfect Storm

I had imagined naturalists would be serene - the types who wore hemp clothing, went barefoot and napped in grassy fields. I imagined they were harmonious equanimous individuals. Such are the musings of a city boy.

John Muir once wrote, "A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship." And so it was with Ivo. Unleashed he was tempestuous, a perfect storm. He was violent and unpredictable, destructive and relentless, a hurricane and a tornado and an avalanche all at once. And not one hour later he would be calm and collected, lying peacefully on the sofa reading his favorite poet, sucking on the remaining ice cubes in his glass on a hot summer's day.

I suppose there are those who might call him "bi-polar" or whatever the word of the day is. But I know Ivo. I know that he is natural, a naturalist, tuned in to the great mysteries of the earth. For Muir also wrote, "But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease."