The Power of Powerlessness

 

A powerful storm knocked out our power earlier this week. It was a storm with a fierceness that I don't think I've ever seen before. Rain and hail pummeled the pavement and wind snapped trees in half like mere toothpicks. In a few furious minutes, our quiet town was whipped and hurled and abused, then left in a battered heap. The storm came while I was in the grocery store with my husband, and we hurried home to check on our kids. 

The first thing we saw was the huge tree lying across our street. The way the mangled roots were exposed at the base of the tree, I could imagine a lonely giant, pulling the tree out of the ground like a child plucks a flower from a garden, then drops it to the ground when some other playful object catches his fancy.

As soon as the storm clouds cleared, the early evening light cast an eery golden sheen on everything. It made me wonder if the storm had really happened. But the evidence was everywhere. Branches and leaves peppered the landscape in addition to, I noticed with a twinge of disappointment, many shingles from our roof. Power was out in the entire neighborhood, and people slowly emerged from their homes to see what had happened.

An interesting thing transpires when a group of strangers experience a big event together. There's a camaraderie that comes on full force, without warning. I watched my neighborhood gather around the large uprooted tree as men swapped stories and decided on what tools were needed to dismantle the tree. Women gossiped and took pictures. My young neighbor headed straight to the home of an elderly neighbor, to check on her. The children squealed at the sight of a tree laying on its side, and they stood on top of it like kings and queens surveying their empire.

I've never loved my neighborhood more than in the aftermath of the storm. The twilight dwindled, and people stayed outside. Darkness came, and children began to beg for comforts: But without electricity, there was no hot food, no TV shows, no video games. No soft music to fall asleep to. Only darkness, and the warm flicker of candles. Perhaps a storybook, sliced by the sharp beam of a flashlight. And still, neighbors congregated outside. Down the block, colorful extension cords criss-crossed between houses, as gas generators were wheeled out and power was shared between neighbors.

The power was out, but I was witnessing a powerful display of friendship and compassion. We were all in this together, and for the next 36 hours, we often convened on our lawns, comparing notes and speculating when our power would be restored. 

Last week's storm was like a bubble of time standing in quiet isolation; the laundry would have to wait, and all small tasks took a back seat to clearing branches, repairing fences and most importantly, clearing out leaky basements. Our powerlessness braided our lives together for a brief time in a way that rivaled the power of the storm.