Ponderings…Power to the people

There is nothing that is so swiftly humbling as being without power for a prolonged period of time after a significant storm has been unleashed upon you and your home. There's just something to be said about the long hours languishing in the heat at night, drenched in sweat and fitfully trying to fall asleep that reminds you of your own fragility.
The first day of a major storm is always a little exciting. You try and prepare, you pick up your yard, you clear away items from your porch, you buy supplies, and then the storm comes.
The power flickers at first, a little tease from the storm, and everyone in the home may look at one another and giggle a little with nervous anticipation. The storm itself has complete and utter control, and for all our Dooms-day prepping, we know this in our core. We surrender to its wrath, hoping for the best, preparing for the worst, and waiting. Above all, that's the hard part: the waiting. We wait to see if we made the right choice in hunkering down, or if we should have evacuated. We wait to learn what has become of our homes, our comforts, our loved ones who live nearby. We can handle the aftermath easily enough once it comes. But there are tiny traces of true fear laced into all that waiting. And it humbles us.
The power goes out and then there is silence. This silence is unlike any other, the sort of quiet that feels tangible and thick, as if a heavy, invisible blanket has been draped over the house. There is nothing to hear but the rustling of those sharing the house with you, and the sounds of the raging storm outside. The silence sinks into us, and we re-enter a world without the hum of connection. No television, no cell service, no fans or thrumming of our electronics that typically surround us. Our ever-moving world becomes suddenly so still, and this, too, humbles us as we wait.
The time after the storm always feels a little fun, like camping. We break out the candles, and light matches to see by. We pull out board games to pass the time together, laughing as we realize we don't remember how the rules are supposed to go. We make haphazard meals out of whatever may soon perish from the fridge, and catch ourselves trying to turn on lights when entering dark rooms. This part is my favorite part, because we connect with each other. The silence is loud, so we whisper to one another, as if worried the darkness will overhear us.
By day two, the novelty wears off a little. When the storm has passed completely, there is much work to be done, and such requires a good night's rest, quality meal consumption and the ability to tend to our basic human needs, none of which we have. If you are fortunate enough to have access to a generator, knowledge of how to set one up is crucial. The trees, limbs and debris from the storm need to be cleaned up and damage needs to be assessed. Meanwhile, life continues as if nothing has happened, and regular demands will also not wait. Jobs need you, family needs you, friends need you. Clients are calling, and work wants you to come in, and the dogs have to go out. There's no sleep to be had, in the sweaty hours of the night. No coffee to be had either, mind you. The sun is hot, and the house is hotter, and the fish tank is starting to turn green. And above it all, the toilets don't flush and it is starting to rain, again. There is much to be done, and the heat is so intense. This, also, is humbling.
Despite all the stress and strain that everyone is under, you get to see the better side of humanity in situations like this. Well-intentioned neighbors using what tools they have to provide relief. They share whatever resources they have, skills they have learned or information they have been given. And they do this freely, without charge during a time when most people are desperate enough to pay everything they have for security and safety.
Events like this are costly. They are exhausting. But they are valuable. We are all in this together. There is no “us and them,” when the lights go out. Just good people helping people. And that is humbling.