Ice Storm Reverie and Writing Like There’s No Tomorrow

I’m sitting here by the fire, handwriting this. Handwriting is what I used to do years ago. Now it’s a struggle to grip the pen; I’ve become so accustomed to the keyboard.

Today is Sunday, December 14th. Two days ago, at 4:30 on Friday morning, I awoke to what sounded like gunshots and rain outside. And there was a weird silence outside that, a silence that comes from the loss of electricity in a New England ice storm. The gunshots were actually ice-coated tree limbs breaking and landing on a lawn thickly coated with more ice. When dawn came around I could see the shiny front lawn and our huge birch trees all bowed down; their 40-foot-high tops touching the ground, stuck there by ice, ice everywhere.

“It looks like the Apocalypse,” said my 16-year-old daughter when she went outside later that morning. She’s not given to religious analogies, yet her comment still seemed eerily accurate. (We are a theologically diverse family, inspired by the works of Marija Gimbutas and Starhawk, with deep sympathies for Tibetan Buddhists, as we are always inspired by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and his cheerfulness.)Yes, if we were to believe in the concept of “the Apocalypse” then yes, perhaps it might look like this.

The moon is just past full and we’ve been waiting in the dark, watching the ice-kissed tree limbs dancing in the lunar light. This is terrible beauty, as Yeats would have said.

Ironically, the folks just two miles down the road from us (literally DOWN the road, as we live in one of the “Hilltowns” of Western Massachusetts) still have power and have no ice and they have Christmas lights and refrigeration for their food. Now three days into this (as our power apparently disappeared Thursday night, while we slept), our refrigerator food has gone bad. (We had kept the refrigerator door closed, thinking that if the power came back on we’d save our food by keeping it insulated in the short term, thinking the power would surely return within a few hours, as it always had before. But it didn’t, so now I need to discard all this food; such a sad waste.)

I am angry at myself – I should have been less optimistic – I should have been better prepared – should have taken those expensive veggie burgers out of the freezer and put them in a cooler in the car – that might have preserved them through this storm. Fortunately, I had the foresight to fill the bathtub with water so we could flush toilets (as our plumbing and running water also disappeared, along with our heat and refrigeration during the power loss).

It’s hard not having running water. I love clean, warm water. And I feel so selfish to complain about missing it. We Americans are among the earth’s few to enjoy so much – everyday – running water, refrigeration, heating fuel…

A friend recently commented on the “bravery” of my writing. I told her my bravery is more likely naïveté (and a sense that no one is reading what I write anyway)…

But if you are reading this, let me tell you, the Apocalypse is at hand. The weather is a symptom of our Holy Mother, who has been polluted.

I got interrupted a few hours ago.

And I’m re-reading what I wrote earlier. So let me begin again.

The earth is alive. She is our Mother. She is God. We are part of Her.

Her Being is the summation of all that is spiritually sentient.

But she is sick with a disease we have decided to call “Global Warming” (I tend to call it “Global Extremes” as we are being swept into weather extremes at an increasing rate – yesterday the temperature was 25 degrees Fahrenheit; tomorrow it’s expected to reach 57 degrees).

The sky is beautiful right now and the sun is beginning to set. The ice on the treetops is glistening – the perfect Christmas card scene. Throughout the afternoon my husband has been periodically opening a window to take pictures of the ice-coated landscape.

I am sitting in the living room by the fireplace with my two younger daughters. My 16-year-old is taking a nap (and fighting a cold); my youngest is drawing a picture of the eternal “Om” (for a 7th grade school assignment). My oldest daughter lives in New York City (where she is working to provide legal aid for people with AIDS); she hasn’t contacted us and I don’t know if she knows what we’re going through. Better to keep her in the dark than to call and concern her.

About five years ago I wrote a novel that predicted some of this (it was published on an Icelandic zine, which I’ve described earlier on this blog). I can’t seem to promote it though – because it describes too much pain, I think. And I’m tired of giving the book to friendly acquaintances who later tell me they “love” it but then start avoiding me – as if I’ve exposed them to something nefandous. There is an unwritten rule that governs our society, which says, “Don’t disturb our peace by showing us your wounds.” People don’t want to know about another’s pain (unless that person is a celebrity, perhaps). Some people try to block out reality with “reality” television. Some people block another’s pain by blaming it on the person in pain. All this doesn’t really lead to compassion. You can lead someone to compassion but you can’t make them think (or feel).

And so, as the sun sets, and my vision fades, I am reminded of E. A. Poe’s story, “Shadow – A Parable.”

It is a parable for now as much as then – and if we can all just be merry to the end, then maybe we can at least perish peacefully, which may be our last best hope.

What is the matter?

What is the matter? The matter? The nature of matter?

The other day my 87-year-old father-in-law, Bill, told me his query.

He wants to find out what’s at the end of the universe. He wants me to help him find out. He’s been asking this question of everyone he knows; everyone who will listen.

Bill’s wife, my late-mother-in-law, died a few months ago. They had been married for more than 65 years. After her death, he spoke only of her. Now he speaks of her in relation to the universe.

Bill wants the definitive answer to this question. He wants this answer to come from science. He said scientists have told him that the universe folds in on itself – and he shook his head, as if this is not the answer he seeks.

Bill has always been a scientist. Educated at MIT and Tufts, with advanced degrees from both places, Bill has never doubted the scientific theory.

My husband tells me that Bill always used to avoid eye contact, believing that making eye contact can be misinterpreted as an aggressive act. But when we spoke the other day, I leaned forward and stared into his liquid, oceanic eyes, both of us searching together for the answer to the question of matter.

At first I told him that the answer is love and kindness – and we each must find this answer in our heart – and caring for one another is all that really matters. He nodded, agreeing, but also insisting that there is a scientific explanation – some answer we can seemingly ascertain if only we can think it through.

Then I reminded him that all things and concepts are associated with symbols – and perhaps in seeking his answer, he could meditate on the connection of each thing to another, and perhaps that could help him arrive at the answer. He considered this explanation.

Finally I asked him what would happen if he found the answer. “If you could find the answer, if you actually knew, maybe you would be sad, because then there would be no more questions, and wouldn’t that be sad, not to have any more questions?” He smiled, then laughed, then said, “You have me.”

It is part of the puzzle, isn’t it? To seek – an answer or an object – even if we cannot understand it or possess it – and yet – there is such sadness when the seeking has ended.

When I try to define the universe, I meditate on the symbology behind the etymology of the word matter: mother – mother of creation, mother of what is holy, giving birth to all that is material, to all that we know of, to all that we know we are, all heart and spirit and soul; all that matters.