So there I was, feeling like I needed to get back to blogging and not having anything to blog about. And then the sky literally fell in.
I feel like I need to write, because that is the best, and nearly only, way I make sense of things. And things stopped making sense when every place we go was underwater. Yes, I’m glad that our home made it through this time. For once that blasted hill, which I curse during every ice storm, was our ally. We were dry. But three miles in every direction there was water where there shouldn’t be water.
The worst part of this is the wanting to help, but not being able to. I look at pictures of friends in filter masks and shorts, taking sledgehammers to walls. Never have I more keenly felt the knife-edge of my disability. The nice thing about technology–and being a life-long reader–is that it makes it possible to ignore physicality for long stretches. You can live almost wholly in your head. Which is how I manage to stay ‘so cheerful’ during the process of losing my physical self. But now that I want to help and can’t I feel trapped.
It hasn’t passed my notice that this flood happened on May Day. That has a certain deeper significance to me, one that I’m still trying to work out. But maybe that’s a post for another time.
One of my friends posted on Facebook that we aren’t to “tell God how big the storm is. Tell the storm how big God is.” And that seems like a fine idea, except for the fact that I’m pretty used to this big God letting storms batter my wheelhouse so that I learn to steer better. A storm is just another conversation to have with God, I guess.
So I’m here in Nashville, but other than not showering or washing dishes or flushing the toilet I’m pretty much useless as far as the cleanup effort goes. If only there were a way to volunteer mad spreadsheet skills and snark.