I really surprised myself this week: I did something entirely sensible. Please allow me to gloat.

For the last decade, I have taught spin classes in the early morning, anywhere from two to six times a week. It is an endeavor that involves motivating a group of people (who are sitting in the dark on stationary bikes) to pretend to ride up and down hills, sprint, and ride at a steady cadence. Music selection is key. Indeed, that is what motivated me to become a spin instructor: I was riding in a spin class one day when “YMCA” came on the playlist, and the teacher yelled at me because I did not throw my hands in the air to form Y – M – C – A. As I almost murderously complied, I vowed NEVER to do anything that dopey ever again, and if my athletic career has featured a less glorious moment than that one, then that moment needs to stay firmly repressed.

So a decade ago, I burned my own CDs and began yelling at hapless riders in the dark. As technology barreled forward (from mp3 players to iPods to cell phones), I did, too, and I still find myself two mornings a week, almost every Friday and Saturday, sitting on a spin bike and yelling at hapless riders.

Except now there is something new: the steady drumbeat of ouch ouch ouch every time my left foot brings the pedal up. If my spin bike had a mirror on it — a ridiculous proposition, for it would only get in the way and be utterly useless in the dark — but if it had a mirror on it, I could look into it as I rode and see exactly who was to blame.

I tried very hard to be perfect. I really did. And in 2001, I hit upon what seemed to be a fool-proof solution to cope with the stresses of small children and the dismay of (what I perceived to be) a fat and ugly self: intense exercise. Intense, high impact exercise. I bounded about. I jumped high — then higher. I ran more than I ever should have. Mostly, I acted like I was Wolverine, a Marvel comics mutant with a skeleton reinforced by a virtually indestructible metal. But I was not. And when foot pain ensued, and when I heard the first steady drumbeat of ouch ouch ouch, I decided that the best way to silence that drumbeat was to exercise more. It was like someone threw me a teaspoon and told me to dig a hole to China and I said sure!

My reward? A stress fractured metatarsal, a crack in the very slender bone leading to the fourth toe of my left foot. I have found a single picture of myself in a cast from that long, painful stretch, and here it is:

(You will note that the only display of perfection in this photo is that adorable little girl, my beloved daughter, enjoying the cool water on a hot day.)

It is something that I have struggled with ever since I quit wearing the cast. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Similarly, if an overachiever ignores a repetitive use injury, does it really exist outside of the carefully documented records of her orthopedist?

Oh yes, my friends. Yes, it does.

I will state an obvious proposition: Feet are important. I will state a proposition that was not-so-obvious to me until the stress fracture: You have absolutely no idea how important your feet are until you have one that hurts. There’s the moment every morning, just after my eyes open, when I lie in bed and wonder if walking is going to be painful. There’s the constant embrace of sensible shoes, with the longing sideways glance at entirely frivolous shoes. There’s the arthritis that’s now no longer incipient. And there’s a temptation to make a fractured left foot a metaphor for everything fractured in your life.

If I were going to make this particular metaphor, I — at least hypothetically speaking — would reference my time on the Appalachian Trail. I wrote about the Appalachian Trail early on, in a multi-part essay called the “Appalachian Trial,” and I am not sure that I ever finished writing the story. For those of you wondering whether I  made my way off the mountain, or if I am blogging from a cell phone with a puny solar charger in a small clearing in the middle of the deep woods, wonder no more, for I am home.

But I digress.

I had never hiked before, and the AT was a gift of love offered to my then 16 year-old son. He is an experienced hiker and camper; he wanted to hike the trail; and I would not let him go alone. So I set off with him in my over-burdened backpack (who packs not one but two hardback books to climb mountains?), and by day four, it became clear to me that my left foot would not hold. Unfortunately, that realization came to me with a second realization: I had 14 uphill miles to go to get out.

There is something about intense pain that will crystallize a problem. There is also something about hiking 87 miles in five and half days with an unduly heavy backpack that will bring you firmly into the present, as the past and future collide. As I wobbled along that last day, every step an affront, I realized that there were just some things that you could not work through. There were just some things that you had to work around.

There was no working through an injured foot: Those cards had been dealt a long time ago by a very careless dealer. I fear the same may be true of a lot of past unhappiness — a less-than-stellar childhood, loss, disaster, broken heartedness, poor treatment at the hands of those you love, your own poor treatment of those you love — all of those lingering and pesky slings and arrows of life. These things haunt you when you are hungry, tired, damp, and fairly smelly, like I was on the AT, and to successfully move one foot in front of the other, all you can think is what can I do? How can I change this?

With every painful step, the answer was simple: I cannot. I cannot change what has happened. I cannot. The left foot will always be broken, imperfectly repaired, achy. The right foot will always mock it with its relative perfection. I will always be left to navigate around the pain, around my own failings. I will leave a trail of bad decisions, of things I wish I could change, of words that I would take back if I only could. That is the truth. The trick is where you go from here. Mindful of the obstacles, respectful of the past, where do you go from here?

I did not know exactly, so I went to T.J. Maxx. I saw two pillows — one said, Hello There Handsome and the other said, Good Morning Gorgeous — and they seemed like the perfect way to begin every day. And really, they have been, as Chris and I make the bed, and as each of us places the pillow on our respective side. It begins the morning with a dose of kindness, a harmless bit of shameless flattery. (I once saw a beer ad about sports rituals, and it had the tagline, “It’s only crazy if it doesn’t work!” I now think the same can be said of decorative pillows.) I have tried to follow this morning kindness with more kindness in general, which seems to minimize those regrets. I have even tried to be kinder to myself, which is not always easy and can even, at times, feel a bit like defeat.

Like this week. When I realized that teaching spin classes two days in a row hurt my foot, I told myself that working through the pain would not work at all. I could push through and pretend the problem did not exist and make things a whole lot worse. I could end up in another cast with even more hell to pay 15 years from now. Instead, I sent the gym director an email , trimming my schedule to one day a week, a load that I could manage. I think I used words like I hate to admit this and this is hard for me to say. I acknowledged my stupidity all those years ago and my attempts to reform my ways. Although I did not write about it, I thought about how relieved I was to have reached this decision, how proud of myself I was to have done something, for once, that might have been absolutely perfect.

ALC

 

It is Friday, and typing those three words fills me with glee. This Friday has the potential to be a great one, a real extrovert’s delight. I taught a spin class, had breakfast with my swim team, have lunch plans with a dear friend, and await a girls’ night, complete with painting and dinner, to celebrate someone’s birthday. I have carved out a little time to write; interesting work is at hand; and even though it is 9:57 a.m., I have had the great good fortune of having had several thoughtful conversations. I am old enough to know that everything could change quickly — a phone call, a misstep, a wrong decision could all spell doom — but at least right here, right now, it is shaping up nicely.

This is good, because last weekend was almost perfect.

I was in Athens last Friday, ostensibly accompanying Chris on business, but really seeing our son and some old friends.  It is an interesting pursuit to watch our son attend college, especially since he attends college where we attended college, and I enjoy listening to his stories, which involve constants not too terribly different from my own from three decades ago. A ready pool of friends. Smart people. Plenty of things to do. A trying on and discarding of various personae. Late nights. Little financial stress. A beautiful campus. The inconvenience of homework. The immersion in, and love for, one’s studies. From talking to him, and from remembering my own experience, I get the feeling that college launches you on an upward trajectory, emboldening you with potential, raising your expectations, and looses you into the world.

And then the free fall begins.

There are the pressures of money. Of real responsibility. The crush of jobs. The overwhelming needs of children. A mortgage to pay. Often boring work. And years of longing to read, only to carve out five minutes in bed, bone-tired, the book falling on your face. But the big casualty for me has been friendships in general, and my college friends in particular.

A few years ago, I wondered why I was around people all the time but had no real friends. I ping-ponged between extremes — from everything is my fault to nothing is my fault — and then I had the lurching realization that the truth was in the middle. We are all human. We all screw things up. We all have to try.

So I started locally and small, with lunch dates and invitations to walk and having people over to dinner, and I enjoyed making the connection. Emboldened by my success, I reached out to old friends, people I knew and really loved in college.

It is easy to get in touch these days, although it can be hard to make the overture. How does one start? Hey, it’s Amy Lee, and I know you haven’t seen me in decades, but. . . . Or You were terribly nice to keep me on your Christmas card list for the first decade, and I never sent out cards of my own, but now . . . . Or Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. 

As I mulled over the question, my college friend Caudle (last sighting: 1989) messaged me: She was coming to Savannah, and she wanted to have coffee. I was delighted to hear from her, and I was even more delighted to talk with her.

I think this is true: If someone was happy to see you 27 years ago, she will be happy to see you now.

I started reaching out, contacting people out of the blue, inviting myself back into their lives. It is good to have a history with people, especially people who have seen you before you have become burdened with responsibilities and beat down, people who knew you when you were beautiful and careless and irresponsible and brimming with emotion and feelings and possibility. I enjoy being reminded of the girl I was, and I am delighted to find that if you squint hard enough, she is still recognizable in the woman I have become.

My reaching out reached a pinnacle this weekend. I invited myself to stay with Conley and his wife, and after they accepted, I immediately thought better of it and offered them several chances to wiggle out of the invitation. They were not deterred, and I am glad, for I have not laughed that hard in years. They immediately set me at ease by telling a story about a guest that was supposed to stay for three nights and ended up staying for two years.

Clearing that low bar, we left when we promised, and we went to a football game with Sharon and Ed. It was a terrible game, one that the Dawgs should have won and could not, and it was a terrific game, sitting next to someone I have known since 1985, acting like the sorority girls we once were, gabbing and laughing. We had great seats, almost directly looking down the Bulldogs’ sideline, and I saw something remarkable.

Coach Smart is an enthusiastic guy, one who runs on the field and jumps up and down and yells at his team. Apparently aware of his enthusiasm, there is a coach whose sole job seems to be keeping Coach Smart on the sidelines at appropriate times. So Coach Smart would run out and jump around, and the other coach would shadow him and grab him firmly by the waistband and manhandle him back to safety. (At particularly heated times, the shadow coach had a back-up in case it took two.)

Maybe I’m alone here, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a person whose sole job on game day is to physically pull you off the field before foul trouble ensues?

I have thought about the shadow coach an inordinate amount, and maybe especially during Parents’ Day for my son’s rowing team last Sunday. Rowing is a new sport for him, a good fit for his size and strength and fragile tall man joints. He rows an eight — that is, a scull that seats eight rowers and one coxswain who transmits orders — and he often tells me about practice and the gym and the imperfect transference of skills from a steady Concept 2 rower to a shaky boat.

More to the point, Parents’ Day offered parents, for the measly sum of $20, an opportunity to be part of the crew of an eight. I will admit to you now that my pride in my athleticism far exceeds my actual athleticism, and I have been known to approach new sporting ventures with an overly optimistic view of my level of performance. I have passed it along to him, for shortly after he began rowing — that is to say, six to eight weeks ago — he said, You know that rowing is an Olympic sport. Yes, son — oh yes, I do, I said, as I mentally composed the human interest video of my son, the Olympic rower, telling the world how I inspired him to greatness. I wondered momentarily if a woman pushing 50 could, herself, make an Olympic rowing team. And I recovered from this delusion by reminding myself of my real, and only indisputable, athletic talent: showing up. (Or, as Chris correctly described our laundry: two pairs of his underwear and 50 pounds of my athletic clothes.)

So I did what I did best. I showed up. A rowing scull is a delicate and narrow beast, requiring great coordination and a leap of faith. The bottom of the scull, in the foot well, punctures easily, and since it tips easily, all movements, from getting in to moving the paddles,  need to be synchronized.

Overseeing it all is a coxswain, usually a small man or a light woman, but on Sunday, a strapping 6’4″ rower shoved himself in the seat to direct us all and to tell us where we would row. The best two rowers sit in seats 8 and 7 — a girl in 8, the lead seat, my son in 7. I sat in 6. I had assessed the other three parents, and in a wonderfully self-congratulatory moment, I was pretty sure I had gotten that seat because I looked to be in shape, and I wore athletic clothes. With the coxswain giving directions on how to get into the boat in a synchronized movement, and with two other rowers (one holding a paddle) running beside in a launch, we set off.

Seats 8, 7, 6, and 5 are the stern four; the remaining seats are the bow four. We practiced stroke drills, and then we practiced rowing, first the stern four, then the bow four. When the stern four rowed, I watched seat 8 and tried to match her stroke. At one point, my oar started to crab — that is, it became stuck in the water. Crabbing is an excellent way to turn an entire boat over, and for a split second, I was certain that that was exactly what was going to happen. And 20 or 30 years ago, that is exactly what would have happened, a mishap fueled by my impatience and my overestimation of all of my abilities. But Sunday, I just relaxed into it, whereupon disaster was averted, and I felt considerably less than the ringer parent that I had felt only a few minutes before.

Crabbing aside, rowing fours was easy. Rowing six was still easy. For reasons that escape me, rowing eight was complete and utter chaos, and I cannot believe that we all remained dry in the boat. But we somehow made it back to dock, and we listened to the coxswain’s cue to get out of the boat, and with the dock wobbling under our feet, we all high-fived.

I watched my son talk to his friends and teammates. I admired their ease, their common interest, their camaraderie. I wanted to say, You will never be more beautiful than you are at this moment. I wanted to say, The years may not be kind, but your friends will be. I wanted to say, Remember who you were. Remember who are you. These people will help you. And I wanted to say, Do not lose touch, no matter how easy it will be.

Instead I said, The time in the boat was terrifying and exhilarating and fun, and I am so happy that I had the experience. And my son replied, I am proud that you tried it. You did great. With that, Chris and I took him out, paid for his lunch, fussed over him, and hugged him several times before we left. It was his birthday the next day, and there was no need to worry him about what awaited, to caution him about how easy it was to let relationships slip through his fingers like an oar through the water. With one more hug, Chris and I got into the car for the long drive home, back to our responsibilities and life as we know it.

ALC

P.S. — Here we are, the coxswain, four rowers, and four parents, immediately before the call to get into the boat. I am the one in the purple and orange, looking (regrettably) like a Clemson superfan.

It is 3:38 a.m., and I cannot sleep. The conditions were ideal: My husband and dog were snoring in that reassuring tandem way that I like, my bed was very comfortable, and the weather is slightly cool. I should be sound asleep, but I am troubled. A few days ago, a recording came to light suggesting that it was okay to grab women and kiss them, touch them. It has been dismissed, at least by some, as locker room talk. And it has upset me greatly.

I have long suspected that if every woman were being honest, she could tell you a story of a date gone bad, an encounter with a man gone well awry. I was not wrong. I have heard and read stories from other women. I have admired my friends’ courage in telling me things that are shameful to them, that have embarrassed them greatly. I have told some of them my stories, and in the process, I have found myself unburdened. For when I have, I am forced to confront a single fact: I did nothing wrong. I will tell you these stories — the ones I remember — and I think you will agree. For the last 36 years, I have done nothing wrong.

It began when I was 12. I began to get notes from a classmate. I remember the handwriting, the horrifying drawings, the use of the words “love” and “death.” I remember being very scared.

When I was 13, a male teacher told me that I should clap erasers. Why? I asked. Looking at my chest, he said that the dust might cause me to swell up where I needed it.

My dad used to take me to meetings with him, and I loved the relatively unfettered freedom. Once, at a pool at a hotel on a slightly cool day in downtown Columbus, a man started talking to me as I read a book. He sat too close to me, and after a while, he asked if he could take me out for a drink. No, I said. I am 14. He then offered to take me out for cookies. I grabbed my towel, walked off, and hid in the room.

A few weeks after I started college, I went on a date. My date insisted on walking me back to my dorm room for my safety. He then insisted on forcing his way into my room and pinning me on my bed. I do not think that either of these things were for my safety. I avoided being date raped, largely because I started screaming. I did not avoid being called by him a number of times thereafter, telling me that I was the type of girl he wanted to marry.

A few months after I started college, I was walking from the student center to my dorm room around 8:30 p.m. A man in a Member’s Only jacket appeared from the shadows of a bus stop and hugged me. Would I like to go somewhere with him? he asked. I would not. I did not. I broke free and ran away.

When I was 24 and newly married, Chris and I went to meet friends at a bar after work. Chris walked off to get drinks, and because there was a dance floor and a song I liked playing, I started dancing. A man started dancing across from me, and he grabbed my ass. I was so startled that I became almost paralyzed, so he grabbed my breasts. I ran to find Chris, and not wanting to start a fight, I told him that I felt sick and that we needed to leave. Now.

As a young lawyer, about 26 or 27, I had a meeting in a judge’s chambers. When I asked him to sign off on some papers, he reached over and started stroking my head. I like your hair, he said.

As a young mother, at 32 or so, I was working in my yard on a lovely Sunday morning. A man stopped and asked me if I loved Jesus. This encounter began years of stalking, and except for the times that this man was in jail on stalking charges, he became a near-constant presence in my life. Male co-workers took turns walking me to my car. I had one male co-worker who decided to “reassure” me: He told me that if the stalker ever tried to sexually assault me, he probably would be unable to get an erection. This did not reassure me.

About five or six years ago, I worked out at a local Y. An older man started following me around the gym. He stared at me. He looked at me in the mirror. He would stand behind me and try to look down my shirt as I lifted weights. He trapped me on machines. One day, he asked me for my name and if he could get a hug. I refused on both counts. I told him that he scared me. When I complained about him, the man at the front desk told me that he was harmless and that he did not bother anyone. He bothers me, I said. Don’t I count? You know what I mean, the man at the desk said.

I quit working out at the Y. One of the first days at my new gym, I was jumping rope. A man yelled, Double Dutch!, and tried to run under the rope, right next to me. Except for when I teach spin classes, I started working out at home. I asked a friend of mine who has a black belt to teach me how to punch. I now box several days a week.

Eight months ago, I took my children to an adjacent county to get passports at a probate clerk’s office. In the security line, I asked the guard to tell me where the clerk’s office was. You want to take off WHAT? he said. I replied that perhaps he misunderstood me, and I repeated my question. So he got louder: YOU WANT TO TAKE OFF WHAT? He kept repeating it. In front of my children. It bothered me so much that the next day, I called the clerk’s office to talk about his behavior. I spoke to three women. Although I did not know his name, all three of them said that they knew exactly who I was talking about.

Through the years, I had convinced myself that these things were somehow my fault: I should not have been reading a book by a pool, for instance, or I should not have been walking alone at 8:30 at night. I should not have danced without my husband. I should have worn loose-fitting turtlenecks to the gym.  I have had some help in convincing myself that these things were somehow my fault: I have had men tell me that I need to look less approachable, that I am overreacting and unduly sensitive, that I have somehow brought it all on myself. I do not think that these things are fair. I am tired of being embarrassed. I am tired of feeling that these things were somehow my fault.

And I do not think that I am alone. Like I said, I suspect that all women could tell similar stories. I have heard some of them. Last night, I asked my daughter. She told me about the time when she was 14, when she was trying to fix a broken chain on her bike and a man called her bitch because she would not talk to him. She told me about yesterday, when she had stopped at a café and was unlocking her bike, where a strange man offered to give her a ride, to take her anywhere she wanted to go. Anywhere. I was horrified. Listen to your little voice, I said. You do not have to be polite. Stick up for yourself. And always remember that if they are bothering you, they are bothering someone else.

I am telling you these things to unburden. To let you know that it’s not just you. To urge you that if you, too, have felt embarrassed or ashamed about these interactions, perhaps you, too, should let it go. The only thing that I did to trigger any of these things was to be a woman. A woman at school. By a pool. On a college campus. On a dance floor. In a judge’s office. In my front yard. At work. In a gym. With my children. That is nothing to be ashamed of.

ALC

P.S. — If you need to unburden, I am willing to listen. Talk to me or email me (ALC@roco.pro), and I will tell no one. If you love a woman, ask to hear her story. She can tell you one.

 

I knew it was going to be a bad week when the brown dog bit my left calf hard. It started as a friendly chat on the sidewalk in front of our home last Saturday – Chris, the neighbor, his child in a stroller, and I – and as the people talked, the dog wanted attention. Chris obliged, giving the dog a good scratching between the front legs and the ears. We said our good-byes, and as we started to walk off, I started to scream. There was searing pain, and a mark on my leg, and hopping about, and a neighbor tugging on a leash, and an explanation that the brown dog had never done that before. And as I limped away in my purple yoga pants, sniveling and hurt, there was also a memory of a William Carlos Williams poem, This Is Just to Say:

I have eaten

The plums

That were in the icebox

 And which you were probably

Saving

For breakfast

 Forgive me

They were delicious

So sweet

And so cold

I mentally rearranged the first two stanzas (I have bitten/the calf/that was peeking out from the yoga pants. And which you probably/needed/for walking) and kept the third, and I decided it was appropriate.

It was also quite painful, the bite, and maybe never more so than when the neighbors came over to apologize. They are good people, my neighbors, and last Saturday, they were genuinely distressed people as they tried to make up for their dog’s actions as I tried to pretend that I could stand comfortably while listening to them. Being no longer young, I decided to try something new. I told them – and I meant it – that dogs are animals and that animals are terribly unpredictable. I also told them – and I also meant it – that we are still friends. And over the week, from a safe distance if the brown dog is in tow, I have made a point of greeting them and waving to them and carrying on as if their dog did not treat my leg as a plum. Which is about the size and color of the bruise he left.

There was also the matter of my own dog, Buddy, an old Golden Retriever/Saint Bernard mix. The AKC does not publish actuarial tables listing the average lifespan of a Golden Bernard mongrel, so I am left with Lorne Greene’s wise advice from my childhood about dog years: Duchess is 13 . . . that’s like 91 to you and me! My own Duchess is of indeterminate age, adopted as a young dog nine years ago, and he’s probably like 80 to you and me. I had noticed the cloudy eyes, I had noticed the struggle off the floor, and I had noticed a lot of other things. At Wednesday’s senior dog check-up, the vet noticed these things and even more, and he gave them various names and prognoses. I will give you the layperson’s assessment of the situation: Buddy is at the beginning of the end.

It was the second time in a few short days that a dog made me cry.

Buddy is the best dog I have ever had, and he will probably be the best dog I ever will have. He is big and kind and loving. He smiles constantly. He has declared me as his person, his best and finest love, and his greatest regret is that I lack a marsupial pouch in which to carry him around. He loves other people’s food, my closet, swimming in the ocean, car rides, listening to women talk, and (improbably) jazz.

When my last dog hit this phase, I began grieving immediately, shutting down for the hard last six months of his life. Being no longer young, I decided again to try something new. I resolved to have patience and kindness, to make Buddy’s daily life as normal as possible, and to squeeze the very best out of his remaining time. So I looked at Buddy, who had dropped to a nearly featherweight 97 pounds, and said, “Hey, Buddy, you’ll be back in that bikini in no time!” I have said this to Buddy at practically every stage in his life, a concession to his big-boned heft, a return to normalcy met with his now-blind eyes turned in my general direction, a smile on his graying face. I thought of Buddy wearing a bikini, and perhaps he did, too, and things were much better.

But things got worse on Wednesday, because it became pretty clear that Hurricane Matthew was headed to Savannah. We have lived in Savannah for 24 years, and we have evacuated for a hurricane once before — Hurricane Floyd, in 1999 – a Ford Explorer packed with Chris, a 2 year-old son, a four month-old daughter, a young dog, our babysitter, and me. It took 14 hours to drive the 250 miles to Atlanta. Floyd completely missed the coast, and the people who stayed reported perfect 75 degree weather, sunny and clear. A few months after Floyd, we bought our current house, two doors down from the old one. It is a three story brick built in 1926, and when we bought it in 2000, the grey trim and the overgrown azaleas made it resemble a battleship. Words like “stalwart” and “steady” and “staunch” spring to mind. It is high and dry, an uncrackable crunk, and in the battleship, we have weathered many, many tropical storms.

A few years – a decade? – ago, there was a movie whose tagline was THE COAST IS TOAST! As I listened to coverage of Hurricane Matthew, this line kept jumping in my mind. As the county, and then the state, began ordering evacuations, the noise became louder. It became overwhelming. Chris and I turned off the television, began reading the updates from the National Hurricane Center, talked, prepared for the storm, and decided to stay.

This surprised me. I am normally very rule abiding, and usually a little scared. I am amazed at the many, many ways that I lack courage, and to say that I frequently disappoint myself is a bit of an understatement. But in my neighborhood at least, it looked like we were in for a tropical storm – albeit a terrible one – and we could withstand that.

The weather started with rain on Friday afternoon. The worst came between midnight and 6 a.m. Saturday morning, and I slept through most of it. My daughter yelled at 5 a.m. – a noise startled her – and it woke me. I made a mistake of looking out the window to see the rain in sheets, the trees snapping, the debris flying, the limbs on the ground. It was beautiful, magnificent, and utterly terrifying. I left Chris and crawled into bed with her, and when we awoke at 8:23, I said, “Hey! We still have power!” And at that moment, we heard the transformer blow and saw the sickening sight of a ceiling fan slowing down and stopping.

I wandered downstairs and opened the blinds and grabbed a magazine and sprawled on the couch and read in the silence. I let my larger family know that we were safe. Framed by my window, I watched our block come to life and my neighbors stream out. I even saw the brown dog on his leash. And when I could sit still no more, I dressed in the dark of my closet and walked into the sun and the wind. I grabbed a branch, and then another and another and another, and I dragged them into a pile. With my neighbors, some silent, some chatty, we began to clean up the mess. And when my daughter woke up, we walked through the streets of the neighborhood.

There were many trees down, and very few houses hit, and there were people everywhere. I have always loved where I live, and perhaps no more so than yesterday. We checked in on neighbors, and they checked in on us, and we assessed the damage. Neighbors with power offered use of their showers, television time, a glass of wine that night. By the time my daughter and I returned home, our next door neighbor, who had electricity, had snaked a very long extension cord over to us, giving us an unusual mix of no power and a few creature comforts. We have made conscious decisions about how we want to use the single cord. We have watched television by candlelight. We have eaten Chris’ gourmet meals cooked only on his gas stove. I woke up early this morning to write, the luxury of a powered notebook, the sounds of a  normal life clicking happily under my fingertips.

These things are true. The city is a mess. Massive oaks have toppled. Roads stand blocked by trees. Power lines are down. There is a curfew. The National Guard is out. Most people lack power. You cannot leave or enter Chatham County, at least for now. Few places are open.

These things are also true. People cheer the power trucks as they drive by. Neighbors bring food to city workers in gratitude and appreciation. People walk their dogs. Young men in a Jeep drove through the streets yesterday with ropes and gloves, pulling aside debris to make the roads drivable. The sun is shining. And when the feeders were replaced, the birds came back.

I walked Buddy last night just before curfew, a slow and loping trek as the sun set. He limped from his arthritis, and I limped, only a little, from the dog bite. As we returned to our house, Chris and our daughter stood on the front porch, waving at me and pointing to a tree. What? I said. What? They stood silent and gestured.

I looked in the tree in front of our house, and there was the hawk. I have never been so close to one. It knew that I was not prey, but it seemed completely unafraid of me. It watched me. It posed for pictures. It was there, and it was solid, and after we had sized each other up for a few minutes, it flew off to hunt.

What did it mean? I wondered. And then I decided that I did not care. Even if it meant nothing, it was beautiful. And in this short, unpredictable life filled with never enough courage, sometimes that is enough.

ALC