Why is it that I can be silent for weeks, months, and then something breaks – and I can’t seem to stop myself? I went a solid 6 months between blog posts, to now sometimes every week. I can’t sleep. I don’t have one thing in particular that I can say on this, but I have so much in my head this night.
My town was underwater this past week. I kept thinking I would look out my window and see people swimming by, like Dorothy saw the wicked witch outside her spinning, airborne bedroom window.
The temperatures rose to the low 50s a few days ago, causing the snow to melt further North and the rivers to rise. By Sunday morning, a storm was brewing, and the rivers were uncomfortably close to the roads. But first, let me break it down for you. There is one 2 lane highway in and out of town. One direction leads to church. One direction leads to town. My house is off a side road in the middle of the two. A good sized river weaves beneath the highway in multiple places, and snakes beside it the entire way.
Our service was ill attended, and we found that some people had been unable to take the road to church due to flooding. The town siren blared its warning throughout the morning, close enough to echo off the surrounding mountains, lending an eerie quality to the thick grey wind in the trees. I stood outside the church in the rain, feeling the wind whip my skirt up around my legs. The air smelled different.
We were lucky to make it home. By the time church was over, the water was already seeping over the roads, entire pastures were gone, and town access had been completely cut off. We listened in on a police scanner at home and heard of the hovercraft rescue missions going on throughout the afternoon to save people from their flooded homes. The volunteer fire department stayed busy all day, and together – we were all cut off from the town.
A historic bridge was due to collapse, if it hasn’t already. The water reached a record high that night, and increased until morning.
I feel heartsick for the people whose homes were significantly damaged or lost. They were sleeping at the tiny town fire station, while their belongings literally floated away down the roads. I feel thankful that our 13 acres are safely tucked away up a steep hill, where the flood waters couldn’t touch us unless the days of Noah were upon us.
I kept forgetting the situation our town was in as I sat beneath a fleece blanket in the glow of our Christmas lights, sipping hot tea and watching Bing Crosby spin Rosemary Clooney in big skirted circles. Then I’d remember, and feel guilty for the safe comfort of my home.
Hm. Something’s been brewing in me like a slow steeping tea for a while now, something I’ve kept simmering on the back burner. Someone told me the other night that it was important not to hide from my feelings, and my first thought was that it sounded like one of those cliché things one friend says to another when they want to offer advice but don’t know really have anything substantial to offer. Something they say when they don’t know what to say. Kind of like when you read an email while listening to someone on the phone, so you just offer an occasional, “mmhmm, no way – really?” to the person on the other end. Not that I’ve ever done that..
After writing her off, I got to thinking as I laid in bed. Did I do that? True, I would prefer to avoid confrontation, embarrassment, discomfort. But that’s not a bad thing, right? A peacemaker at heart, fond of quiet rather than chaos. She should have been commending me for that, not challenging me to deviate. I put my hands over my face to block the dark ceiling from my view, smoothing out my furrowed forehead.
That was a load of crap, and I knew it. Perhaps I’ve been living in my sheltered head for a bit too long. I was eager to avoid embarrassment, uncomfortable situations, cheeks that burned bright at the slightest thing. By missing the risk, was I also missing the adventure, the chance, the cause for hope? I voiced the thoughts in my head to my companion the next day, and our discussion lasted all the long miles to and from Burlington, and then some. It followed us like a shadow throughout the day. And that was all it took – I made a change the very next day. Have I done right? I still don’t know. I like to think that I did.
I know that one day I will look back at this entry and remember exactly what was going on, what was going through my mind, and how it felt. In a word, it feels like the massive storm we just had – and my mind is flooded.
I stood outside the tiny, single theater in my small town that next night; impervious to the 30 degree temperature, the Christmas lights lining the streets, the soft hum of downtown life on a quiet Tuesday night. My hands stayed in my pockets, my eyes on the road, but not quite seeing. I haven’t been able to drink coffee in a week, and I have been blaming it on my body adjusting to a new, smaller dosage of medication. Perhaps that’s the only reason I feel as if I’m on a roller coaster – my stomach perpetually in my throat.
I stood in town again this morning after the fire alarm was pulled on campus, herding my 6th graders out the door, down the steps, and into some semblance of order on the sidewalk next to the entire school. People drove by and braked, looking at our plastic red “HELP” signs in every teachers hand, which was wrongfully aimed at the street so that the opposite side which read “ALL CLEAR” was visible to the building. I swallowed my smile as a frazzled clipboard carrier walked by, ignoring the few feeble “hellos” aimed in her direction. Procedure went out the window, so I let my gaze roam to the foothills. They were dusted with snow sometime last night, providing a proper feast for the eyes on an occasion of boredom such as this. I felt the icy wind nip around my heels at my bare toes. The snow will reach us again soon. Perhaps it will melt too quickly again. Perhaps it will flood again, and I can toss my thoughts into the raging waters one at a time and watch them float away.
Ever since that last blog post went up, I was surprised to see that my readers went up exponentially. I suppose when you tag an entry with the words “withdrawals, prescription drugs, Cymbalta” you’re bound to get hits. Still, if I’ve ever wanted to go back and make one private, that’s the one. No one really enjoys eyeing dirty laundry. No one really enjoys displaying it. Have you ever been over to a friends’ house unexpectedly, and they rush to push all their underwear under the bed? I’m pushing it under and pulling it out at the same time. I’m saying, “Look everyone – underwear.”
I’ve kept busy in the days following the bad spell. I survived, I began to feel better. My mood has even gotten better, since every morning I wake up thankful now that I don’t feel the feelings I felt during those awful days. Christmas is coming up, I have class of 6th graders to occupy daily. I’ve been attempting to learn Joni Mitchell songs on the guitar, trying to mimic her strange way of melodic conversation. I took it slow after the Great Christmas Tree Attempt, but have no fear for our festive spirit; we have since put up our tiny tree, and I try to keep my hysterical puking fits to a minimum these days.
Is it too soon to make withdrawal jokes? Maybe. But I get to make the rules for this particular case.
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