Disaster Averted: In truth most things turn out all right
In which a predicted winter storm turns into a delightful first big snowfall.
And so it begins y’all.
A huge storm was predicted. Rain was meant to turn to sleet was meant to turn to snow leaving layers of ice on the roads. The radar showed a deep azure bean surrounded by white moving at an angle from the northwest corner of the state to the southeast.
Over a period of 36 hours, the bean was meant to spread long like a Finger Lake, covering us all in nearly two feet of snow with two inches of ice by Friday morning.
I storm prepped, by which I mean, I went to the library Wednesday to exchange some books, because what else do you need in a storm?
To be sure, the wind did howl and the rain did come, and then snow. The roads are definitely slick (though I wonder if with slush more than ice).
I can’t speak for how much damage was done on the highways (even we Minnesotans get caught off-guard when the roads ice. We have to learn winter driving all over again), but as you can see, from my yard, it didn’t entirely turn out the disaster it was suspected to become.
And so went my fortieth birthday.
There were some definite emotional upheavals, mostly that a friend with whom I was meant to spend a witchy, reflective weekend tested positive for COVID the night before I was meant to travel, and as such, the friend who was meant to drive over from South Dakota to join us decided to stay in South Dakota.
For a solid three hours, I sobbed my little eyes out feeling like I had manifested the exact thing I feared and my fortieth birthday was going to be a sad, lonely affair, just me, my dog, and a bottle of wine (which actually doesn’t seem so bad).
BUT it turned out all right, almost, dare I say, better than I had thought it could.
I was up reading the night before and when I closed my book I realized it was 12:04 and I was now 40 years old! What a milestone! Okay, so sure, most of the world’s population manages to live to at least 40 years, but the pandemic and an awareness of aging have increased an already serious fear of dying.
I attended my first funeral at five years old! To be sure Great Grandpa Lotty was old, or at least much older than I am now, but I still remember seeing him there in his brown suit, a rosary wrapped around his clasped hands. I stood on the kneeler and my mother held my sister, two or three years old at the time, as we looked into his casket.
Having been born into such a young family, my life has been full of funerals. I met two of my great-great grandfathers (I don’t remember them, but technically I did meet them). I had many great aunts and uncles a couple of whom are still alive today in their nineties.
I am not upset at having attended a first funeral at such a young age, death is a consistent part of life, after all. But it seems to have given me an acute awareness of my impending death at an earlier age than I think many experience (some, I’ve learned attend their first funerals in their twenties! I wonder what that must be like), but it also gave me a sense of wanting to fully live (even if I haven’t always known how to do that).
Then the pandemic happened and mid-life crises accentuated this awareness to the point that every twinge, every heart palpitation, has been sending me into a spiral of fatal doom. Surely I must be dying.
I am ashamed to admit that I have been to the emergency room more times in the last 12 months than I have in the last ten years (which is to say, two or three times).
So when I found myself, a newly minted 40-year-old (or technically having finished my 40th year) a sense of gratitude at having survived did seem appropriate.
An involuntary little smile touched my lips, a little dance reached my limbs in mini celebration of me, I felt some kind of mystic shift or release (I’m not lying here, I can’t actually explain it) and, to my surprise, I fell asleep in joyful anticipation rather than fear and dread.
The following day I engaged in two whole video chats with two distant friends while I packed for town (which is actually driving two hours southwest to Fargo-Moorhead). I ate sushi with two local friends. And though the service was, unfortunately, let’s say chaotic and distracted, the company and food were perfect.
Then, A— (a new mom who hasn’t been out on her own and not pregnant in two years) and I (a 40-yr old hermit) decided to relive our 20s and, Dear Reader, we went to a bar! On a Saturday! At 10 pm!
10 pm! Can you even imagine?! Do you even remember?
A new place called Harold’s just down the street from A—’s house. It’s built in an old service garage so the front wall is all window and it’s got a punky, industrial vibe.
It was pleasantly slow people-wise, which is definitely safer for a couple of old women like ourselves, who have almost always felt more natural on a sofa with a crochet hook in hand than bellied up to a sticky bar (not that we didn’t do a lot of that in our youths as well).
I’m sure you remember the noise in these environments. The music was so loud, my voice went hoarse in the first twenty minutes! I was really living life now!
We each had a drink apiece, of which A—’s was nearly swiped by a smooth-talking, sleight of hand, 20-something decked out in a full suit, under the guise of helping her to clear her quarter full PBR with an olive from the table. Thankfully A—’s reflexes are quick when it comes to protecting her beer.
We were shook, though, by this approach, so we spent the better part of an keeping an eye on him and speculating about his behavior.
We people-watched the fresh-faced youngsters for two whole hours, and when I suggested we call it a night the look of relief that washed over A—’s face filled the room, and, Oh, Friends, how wonderfully peaceful it was to step outside into a chill September evening and hear my own thoughts, finally!
What an absolutely unexpected night full of laughter, love, and surprising events. I hadn’t quite experienced so much stimulation in, it feels, many years!
Not at all the disaster I had feared it would be.
Life has been more or less the same as it ever was since, nothing really changes from day to day regardless of one’s age. However, a whole host of ideas have come (back) to me regarding this space. It’s still taking shape, but shifting from NORTHWOODS RECORDER to THE(slow)POET was the first step.
In reality, nothing’s different about my mission: to share with you moments of slowness through writing, but the name seems more accurate regarding who I am and some of the things I’ve wanted to include in my meanderings. That is to say: regular Creative Invitations and an exploration into creative practice.
The inaugural Creative Invitation reached your inboxes earlier this month, I hope you took from it what was useful, and I’m working on the first On Practice interview as well as an intro to that section. I’ve also written and published a slew of haiku in a mini challenge to myself over on Vocal Media. Give them a read here!
The flakes still gently fall off and on out my window and I’m gearing up for my first winter walk around the yard. What seasonal shifts are drawing you in? What disasters have been averted recently? Leave a comment or send an email!
