After the Storm
Hurricane Ian swept across Florida this past week, creating mayhem that will take years to recover from. The lovely west coast where the Category 4 storm came in received the brunt of its fury and the suffering there is immense, as in other areas. Lake County in Central Florida where I live escaped with minor damage; being tucked away inland has its advantages. Some folks lost power; we were without internet for three days. A few stately old live oaks toppled in neighborhoods tearing up pavement and sometimes landing on property such as cars and sheds. But no major flooding and no deaths.
If only that was true for all.
Ironically, the morning after Ian left Florida to move on to South Carolina was astounding. After two days of angry wind gusts and a steady downpour, we were rewarded with a cerulean sky and a few wisps of white clouds along with temperatures that herald in the wonderful Florida autumn. The oppressive humidity was gone, and aftermath felt new, the air cleansed and refreshed. It made me think of an essay by Joan Didion titled In Bed in which she writes about her frequent migraines, ending with the way she feels when the pain finally leaves. After a few days of hunkering down in the darkness of her bedroom as the pain raged, she would emerge renewed and re-motivated, much like a reboot.
The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria. I open the windows and feel the air, eat gratefully, sleep well. I notice the particular nature of a flower in a glass on the stair landing. I count my blessings. (1968), The White Album, 1990, Noonday Press.
I’m not sure any of us feel the euphoria part—the damage is too rampant, the deaths too many, the suffering too much. But I would be remiss not to be grateful. Today I walked through our yard littered with a blanket of small tree debris. Large swatches of Spanish moss have been sucked out of the live oaks and flung onto everything, like a bad attempt at natural tinsel. But aside from our little boat becoming airborne only to land safely back in the lake, there is nothing to lament over. The cardinals are back in full force; they chirp the day away flitting from trees to azalea bushes to the row of tall and lanky bamboo that borders the south side of our property. Dusky Carolina wrens join them in the back and forth. Constant motion that thrums with life.
Inside my little bubble, I can take this time to think about impermanence. Simply stated, the Buddhist concept of impermanence is that everything is temporary, everything changes, always. Nothing remains the same even for the time it takes to write this. Every second moves us on, and what we leave behind eventually decays and starts anew. Cause and effect. A beginning, an end and a beginning once again.
Like the hurricane. Somewhere in the Caribbean a random gust of wind grew into what became a massive, howling monster that slouched towards land and life to leave destruction in its path until it was finally spent. Then came the perfect weather, the atmosphere rebooted. Almost like an apology and a reparation. A tiny balm to think about the future, of clean-up and rebuilding. For those who lost friends and family, homes, cars and belongings, this is small consolation. But if we can look past what was to what can be, then we have hope. Hope for a new beginning.
And so it is with all of life. A few weeks ago I was on schedule for the 28th of September to fly back to Germany to spend time with my 96-year-old father. Always a strong, active person, his physical condition has declined enough to affect his quality of life physically, and lately, mentally. I had thought that I could entertain him, read to him, or go for short walks in the nearby parks. And then I felt the need to postpone my trip because of a tricky lumbar injury that cropped up and still remains unresolved. I didn’t want to end up with a locked-up back. During a visit in 2017, also in October, it did just that, and my father’s dear wife became my caregiver. And since I’m not good at being in pain, I showed a whiny side that I can only hope has been forgotten and forgiven. So I’ll wait until I’m stronger, better.
In the meantime, I’ll hope for healing. For all those who have lost and have to start over.
