What the Storm Taught Me

The Buddha takes dukkha (the Pali word for dissatisfaction) as the starting place for the spiral to freedom. This is the condition that we find ourselves in. We find ourselves in the world in a state of dissatisfaction much of the time. We take that existential condition -the way that we find ourselves ordinarily in the world-and ask: “What do we have to do to create freedom in our lives?” - John Peacock

Our little town of Cottage Grove, OR was in the eye of a deadly ice storm last week, amidst other dukkha I was already experiencing. I had been sick for over a week while supporting a close family member as they cared for a dying loved one. The freezing rain had been falling for a day when we lost power Saturday evening, and I brought my elderly mother to our house because her senior living had no heat. She and I tried to stay warm by the wood stove while my husband was out of town. All night, fearful thoughts troubled my mind as I struggled to keep the fire going and listened to the near-constant sounds of breaking trees crashing to the ground. The next day I’d hoped we could get to a hotel near Eugene, but thankfully a neighbor told us not to leave home: all the local roads were jammed in deadlocked traffic and people were stranded by the roadside in freezing temperatures. Little by little, neighbors met on our icy street, sharing information and charging phones in idling cars. Sharing news turned into sharing resources, and when I discovered we had hot running water and the gas range could be lit for cooking, I invited a couple from a few doors down to stay with their poor, cold pets. So many folks were staying in freezing cold houses, of course I invited them to find warmth by the fire, to get a shower or cook a hot meal. Some stayed an hour or most of the day, and some overnight. We included the reluctant family across the street whose preschooler was recovering from strep throat, and their teenaged daughter and dog joined us too. The house was suddenly bustling with many voices, stacks of snacks on the kitchen table, piles of firewood, and bursting coolers on the back deck. We all threw in together, stoking the fire, and cooking big communal meals out of food we didn’t want to waste. I’d turn around and someone had done all the dishes, and another new friend was making a run to the only open store. By the time Tom got home on Tuesday afternoon, we had become a big, ad hoc family, and he folded himself easily into our new routine. He brought out art supplies and we drew with the kids, and later played games by the light of candles and flashlights. When I felt ill, my new friends helped me, and they listened when I needed to vent my frustration. Everyone acted with kindness, even when our nerves were frayed, and everyone was generous despite justified worry and fear. Evolutionary survival tactics (such as those identified by Rick Hanson in his book Buddha’s Brain) weren’t in evidence; no one was looking to take advantage of the situation, no one acted superior or obsequious, and no one tried to take control. I’m not sure if we just happen to have amazingly relaxed and resilient neighbors, or if we all just rose to the occasion, but either way these people of all ages who had been relative strangers have now become friends.

Five days into the power outage I got news from a longtime LA friend that our mutual friend’s adult child had died. I had known this person since childhood, and I was devastated for the family. To say that I was touched by real suffering last week would be an understatement, yet each experience was distinct from each other. Though the grief was potent, my mind wasn’t piling everything together and labeling the whole ball of wax as a horrible monolith. My meditation practice on the cushion has taught me how to be with each new thing in life in each new moment. Even in grief, there is a kind of clarity, a "clean pain," to quote author Resmaa Menakem, a pain that is full of love and compassion. I feel connected, even to those from whom I am separated. If there hadn’t been love and connection, if there hadn’t been beautiful experiences, the loss wouldn’t be so keen. There is a freedom in this kind of clarity, even when it hurts.

There have been so many beautiful silver linings from the storm, especially getting to experience the collective warmth and calm filling our house. I’m reminded of Thich That Hanh’s story of Vietnamese refugees fleeing their country in the late 1970s. He wrote, “… many people, called “Boat People” left the country in small boats. Often the boats are caught in rough seas or storms, the people may panic, and boats may sink. But if even one person aboard can remain calm, lucid, knowing what to do and what not to do, he or she can help the boat survive. His or her expression - face, voice - communicates clarity and calmness, and people have trust in that person… One person can save the lives of many.” I believe this is what humanity needs as we sail our ship called Earth into the future.

Next week, a new storm is predicted. While I don’t enjoy anticipating more challenges, I have my practice to lean on for support. I can prepare and plan, but I don't need to freak out, or to control everything, or lie down and give up. My meditation practice offers the stability and confidence to get through whatever comes, more or less intact. Mindfulness offers the ability to reframe my view: none of this is personal to me. Things will change and change again, and the hurdles will be leapt, and whether successfully, I’ll endeavor to keep my heart and mind open to the possibility of silver linings.

Kate SavageJanuary 25, 2024