It’s June, and here in Florida that means the official beginning of hurricane season. Not that we’re going to see one anytime soon; that probably won’t happen for a couple of months.

It’s jarring to think about the wildness of such a storm on a quiet June day. Hurricanes are unpredictable. The only thing you can predict is that they will be intense, huge, terrifying—and completely out of our control.

We mistakenly believe that we are in control of our lives. We have no desire to consider such chaos. And yet nature has a way of reminding us that we can do our best, but we will never control it. We may destroy great swaths of the natural world, but the weather remains stubbornly beyond our command.

For now, the intensity and chaos of a hurricane are still months away.

This year, I expect one sometime around early to mid-September. Why? Because Rosh Hashanah begins on the evening of September 11th.

It doesn’t happen every year, but the convergence of a hurricane and the High Holidays happens far too often.

It’s hard not to take it as a message from God: “Repent. Or Else.”

Or maybe it’s a sign from the heathen weather gods: “Oh, you were planning something special? Oopsy. Soooo sorry about that.” Followed by an evil cackle and an ominous clap of thunder.

I will admit to being jaded. Hurricanes have historically skipped past Sarasota, and when they do hit us, they rarely hit very hard. Some say it’s because there’s an ancient Indian burial ground here (although no one knows where). Others believe it’s a geographical quirk of the coastline. Some say it’s just pure dumb luck.

And they are slow to arrive. Waiting for a hurricane is like being stalked by a turtle. Warnings can begin as early as two weeks in advance.

Even so, now that June has arrived, it is time to prepare. There’s not much to be done—a large plastic tub with cleaning supplies, another with personal items, plus lots of bottled water. My house is a tiny fortress built on the far edge of a flood zone. I do not plan to evacuate.

But Mother Nature can be fickle. And despite Carl Sagan and Joni Mitchell telling us that we are made of stardust, a swirling mass of wind and rain can blow away a handful of dust with ease.

I am sitting in the afternoon sun with my elderly hound dog at my feet. He is warily watching a pair of ducks who recently joined the neighborhood. I am watching white clouds sail slowly by.

Neither of us knows what tomorrow will bring, or when a storm will threaten our quiet lives. He trusts me. I trust the Divine.

The ducks drift across the pond. The clouds drift across the sky. Somewhere over warm ocean water, the next storm may already be gathering strength.

But not today. Today there is sun, an old dog at my feet, and enough grace for one quiet June afternoon.