It was an odd winter, with hardly any snow and none that stuck around over a day. I count that as a blessing, considering the other challenges the season held. The relative mildness was a comfort and a gift. But still, when snow fell for a couple hours this morning, the child in me was glad, and we climbed, she and I, up the hill atop crystalline flakes, listening to the silence, feeling the dance of the soft light that caressed the bark of the trees. Often, I’ve found, what is surpasses all you could have imagined or hoped for. Haven’t you noticed?
I wish you could see the smile on my face as I write these words to you. I’m sliding invisible gifts your way between each and every letter. You could be starting to feel them right about now.
I want to say a few more things about my experience with what I call “the chem bomb situation.” Just a few. Then we’ll move on. Okay?
For starters, let me say I’ve had some sizable shocks in my life, but this one topped them all. I’ve seen the story morph in the media over time. Now, in most places I’ve seen, it’s something like “the train derailment that spilled some toxins in Ohio.” And the train derailment was bad, erupting in a fire so fierce that over 50 regional fire companies responded. But what was worse, and that goes unmentioned now, is that a series of events led to dumping tank cars of toxic materials into a pit and setting it on fire. An enormous cloud of a million pounds of toxins, trapped by a thick layer of clouds, spread over miles, followed by rain.
I’m about five miles down wind from “ground zero.” I watched the black toxic cloud coming at me from my kitchen window. It hung over my house and land a long while, turning it darker outside in late afternoon than any midnight I have ever seen. Over the next several days, my body kept surprising me with new symptoms, and according to local reports many others were experiencing the same.
It was quick a shock to discover what had happened. All I knew for sure was that I was in a significantly altered world. I gathered all the information I could find to help me figure out how I wanted to respond. After a while, I realized that I had no control over the circumstances I found myself in. I couldn’t “fix things” or make what had happened un-happen.
“So,” I finally said to myself, “what are my responsibilities here?” And myself reminded me that my primary intention is to be a joy warrior. I saw that in order to do that effectively, I must first attend to my own health and stability. So that is where I focused. I honed my diet and allowed my body to sleep as much as it needed. I did my research, made my observations, kept my notes and logs. I consciously turned my thoughts toward things that brought me inspiration and joy, I ventured out with my camera. I made photographs and poems. I listened to good music and read good books. And now, at long last, I believe I am gaining the upper hand with my symptoms. I am strong enough to expand my focus to other things.
That’s the last I intend to say about the whole chemical bomb business. I just wanted to sum up what really happened here. But the world is awash in disasters. May God have mercy on us all. Besides, I have better fish to fry. For one thing, I want to tell you a story.
It was cold and windy and spitting bits of rain when I came out of the store, pushing my grocery cart through the parking lot’s puddles. As I neared my car, I saw that a man was huddling against the car next to mine, his hoodie pulled up against the weather, having a smoke before he got in his car.
He glanced at me briefly then side-stepped his way to the back of his car so I could open the door on mine and stow my groceries. He remained with his back to me the whole time, probably to shield me from his cigarette’s smoke.
I finished putting my groceries in my car, and as I guided my empty cart between our cars to take it to the collection rack, I said, “How ya doin’ today?” The man spun around and looked me right in the face, his blue eyes crinkled into a smile above a grizzly, white beard, “Why, thank you!” he said, his voice filled with surprise, as if I’d just handed him a thousand bucks. “Thank you!” I returned his smile and wished him a fine afternoon.
That’s the whole story. I thought you might like it.
Thank you for bearing with me as I adjusted to my region’s catastrophe. May you forever be free of such things. They’re no fun at all. And life these days seems to dish out plenty of challenges for each of us without them, doesn’t it? So may we kind. And may we see life’s goodness and beauty as we journey together on the trail. I’m so glad to have you along.
I see you, brave little leaves, poking up from last year’s survivors into the mild March air even though the nights still promise more frost. I understand; I came early, too. You can only wait so long before you just have to make the leap. Comfort is fine, as far as it goes, but oh, the irresistible lure of new adventures!
In the corner of the garden, heliobores wear crystal droplets fallen from a colorless sky in ribbons of frozen rain and snow. March, who transports us from winter into spring, performs her mission adeptly, with subtlety and grace. We shiver in the cold, tempted to scowl. But there, in the corner of the garden, bold blossoms open, singing songs of resilience, painting our minds with sweet hope.
Haha! Just look at you, there, opening your arms to the light. I’ve been longing to see you, you, brave rising green thing of springtime. so suddenly tall, breathing the sun, Just look at your joy, look at you singing triumph over winter’s long sleep, over the desolation of brown and gray. Oh wee one, who will burst into yellow summer flowers, welcome! Welcome! Just look at you there!
Even in the morning’s cold you come and we trade chirps and songs, forgetting everything else except the way the clear air shivers with the happiness of our greeting.
The light from the rising sun hits the maples atop the western hill, and all of a sudden the world is awake and eager. Even the trees still in shadow dance, the gladness of morning spilling brand new chances everywhere. Birds chirp; dew glistens. I pour fresh coffee and nod my head at the scene, my eyes smiling my yes. Bring it on, wondrous world. Bring it on.
Some time back I read where this scientist discovered that different emotions produced different lines on paper using a machine hooked on one end to a human, on the other to a pen. Everybody’s sadness made the same shape. So did their mad and their joy. I remembered that as I gazed at the budding maple, its limbs writing joy across the nearly spring sky.
I walk into the woods in search of signs of spring’s emergence. Here and there, blades of grass poke through the layers of last year’s fallen leaves. But mostly the browns eclipse the bits of green. I am weary of the hue and eager for curled ferns and wee flowers. Then a whisper floats into my awareness: Remember winter’s gift to you. Oh, yes! Lessons in color and form. And there at my feet, I see the day’s offering, a lacy filigree of white atop a curled wave of sugared brown, a treasure, to be sure. Remember, comes the whisper. And I nod, and gently smile.
As I told you last week, I decided it would be worthwhile for me to put some of my personal experiences and observations into words as I travel through the aftermath of the East Palestine, Ohio train derailment. I was, and am, curious what I’ll learn about what it’s like to experience a disaster up close. I’ve been keeping track in my journal.
I’ll share an excerpt from it in a minute, but first I want to say thank you to those of you who sent your wishes for my well-being and your encouragement. Your kindness truly touched my heart.
Now for what I wrote yesterday in my journal . . .
“I’m beginning to work through the part of my situation where the chemical bomb that exploded a month ago took nature away from me. Nature—which, since my childhood, has been my enduring teacher, comforter, source of wonder, place of worship, and friend—now wears an invisible overlay of poison.
“And I am outraged that this has been taken from me, that nature has been transformed into a place of potential treachery, a tool of evil. It may be months before I know whether it is suicidal to walk these fields, to wander by the creeks and streams, to kneel in the soil to photograph the precious flowers. It may be that I’ll never find out. But the curse of it is that the likelihood of nature’s toxicity is high now, and always present in my awareness. That’s the personal tragedy I carry as a result of this event.
“Everyone has been touched by it, for miles and miles around. Hundreds. Maybe many hundreds. Its range is one of those innumerable things that we will not know for a while, perhaps decades.
“The normalcy bias, the cognitive dissonance and confusion are strong. It’s hard to ferret out and process the data, which becomes more and more difficult to find and is contradicted at every point. We don’t even know the extent of the danger we’re in, whether the investigators are testing for the right stuff, looking in the right places for their samples, running the right tests. Information is twisted and fragmentary as it filters through the networks of shareholders and politics. Meanwhile, mothers secretly wonder if they’re killing their children by bathing them. And everyone tries to pretend that it’s all okay now because they have nowhere else to go and no way to get there if they did.”
A few hours after I wrote that, I learned that due to yesterday’s heavy rains, a dam that had been built to contain some of East Palestine’s contaminated soil had washed away. Water and sludge were pouring down the major creeks, bound for the Ohio River, and then the Mississippi.
As if that weren’t enough, a second major train derailment had just happened in central Ohio. No fire or leaks were apparent in the drone photos, but hazmat crews were on the way and local residents were advised to shelter-in-place “in an abundance of caution.”
(By the way, if you ever find yourself being so advised, “shelter-in-place” doesn’t just mean to stay indoors. It means to tape off your windows and doors and turn off any heating or cooling that circulates air in the house until you get the “all clear.”)
Nevertheless, I’ve noticed that springtime is signaling its approach. Green sprouts poke up through the ground. The morning holds a growing chorus of birdsong, and the birds are mating. Life reawakens. It’s song goes on.
Little by little, we adjust. We begin to learn how to find balance in the midst of uncertainty. We feel more connected to each other, sharing as we do this all-eclipsing event that’s touched all of our lives in such fundamental ways. And each of us is finding out how much kindness counts.
Smile at somebody today. Look them right in the eyes and smile. It’s the best medicine out there, no matter what.
