It was sometime in the middle of the night. The house was dark. We had lost our power and our cable and Internet.
The wind was frightening me for the first time since moving to the country.
It sounded like a jet engine was screaming outside the window; I felt the house trembling and got out of bed to go out onto the back porch and through the wind, snow, and rain.
I looked through the thickening storm to see our trees and bushes lying almost vertical as if they were pleading for mercy.
The day began hard and got more challenging. Our bathtub, which we filled to have water if we needed it for us and the animals, seemed to have frozen; the water would not drain.
Our donkey Lulu was limping badly; we thought we couldn’t go away Monday with her in distress. We are the stewards of our animals; they depend on us for care.
The roads were so slick no one was on them.
I was sick, had some stomach virus, and needed to use the bathroom frequently. I felt weak and old.
I was wondering how I might deal with the bathroom problem. Maria said she would go down the street in this awful storm and haul water up the hill in a bucket.
I did not want that to happen. I couldn’t go out on the slick and thick ice; there was too much risk of a fall. And I was too weak.
I was helpless on my farm. I am older and weaker than I used to be.
The storm was a gradual but relentless thing, a sudden but thorough assault on my identity.
I was beginning to have a panic attack. I was no longer sure who I was or what my purpose was.
I felt cut off from the wider world and surrounded by dangers I couldn’t control. I had lost my voice.
I felt bewildered. And I felt sick. I couldn’t hold food down.
I no longer write books; I chose to write on this blog. I’ve written on the blog since May of 2007, almost every day. It is who I am and how I express myself; it is my living memoir, great work, life and growth, fear and pain, and evolution.
It is Maria, my farm, the animals, my pictures, my search for spiritual life, and my small acts of great kindness. It is the dog who sleeps on my lap when I’m sick.
“Who am I?” now, I kept thinking. I wasn’t sure. It was as if my identity had suddenly vanished, as if I had no way to express myself, after fighting for my purpose and identity for years. Thursday, I knew who I was.
Friday night and Saturday, I had forgotten.
I’m not frontier person like my wife any more.
I was a city boy, and I was feeling overwhelmed, even as she told me this was old panic and trauma, nothing to do with the storm.
I didn’t believe her. The fear was too deep and genuine. The reality wasn’t.
I called the cable company and got a recording saying they couldn’t know when the Internet could be restored. It was serious. I couldn’t even get the weather. I felt sweaty; my stomach was a mess.
I knew I would need a bathroom more than once.
I called the electric company; they estimated three hours before the power would be back. I knew I had to hold on.
But what about my medicine in this awful cold?
What about the animals? What about the water pipes in the bathroom? One of our huge maple trees could fall on the house, as was happening all over town and the country; I saw it on my Iphone before I couldn’t check the weather anymore.
I was flying blind.
Bit by bit, I felt the wind shriek and rage; I was being pecked apart, my world shrinking before me, and the storm wouldn’t let up.
Who was I now? I understand this panic is old and childhood, but that doesn’t make it go away.
Without power, there is no genuine warmth, no protection for my medicine.
We have a generator in the garage, but I suspected we would not need it. We live on a busy highway, and I couldn’t get outside. Even the truths were gone; Maria would have to do it herself.
I wouldn’t say I liked that idea, I was useless mas a partner, and I couldn’t call for help in a storm like this unless there were no choices.
I didn’t accept the fear; a voice inside me said something was wrong. It was a lie, no matter what I felt.
I knew I had to settle, find myself, and figure out who I was. I had to see reality.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and paid less attention to my brain, and more to my stomach, the center of my body.
My original fear comes not only from my childhood but from my own and my ancestor’s fear. I grew up in a sea of fear.
Their fears had all come true.
They suffered from hunger and dread and hatred and cruelty; there were few times when they were not anxious, even terrified.
This kind of fear has been transmitted to me and almost everyone who has the fear so deep inside them.
When this fear threatens to overcome me, I know to stop, go inside of me, and try to wall myself off from the outside, which is triggering my old and inbred fears.
Fears are emotions, not anything real. Dangers are something else.
Emotions are a space to cross, not something to be accepted and believed. Looking out from the porch at our trees bending so profoundly in the wind, I looked at the trunk. The branches were bending in the wind; the trunk was not.
They would withstand the storm.
So would I.
Like the tree, I felt vulnerable, but like the tree, I know I am solid and deeply rooted in the ground and my life, and my faith and purpose. I have so much to do, so much to live for.
I began to get stronger.
I would not break in this storm, not from the power, cable, wind, snow, rain, or ice. I would be here in the morning, and so would almost everything I loved. My life would be waiting for me, just like before the storm.
I just needed to find my trunk and stand my ground. Because I am also firmly rooted in the ground I can’t be blown away or overwhelmed.
When I’m afraid, my dogs stay close to me. They are not bothered by me; they accept that I will return. They know who I am.
But I wasn’t sure. Who am I?
I went with a flashlight to dig out my precious book, “Fear,” by Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist scholar who died a short time ago. He often wrote about fear.
I remembered his Five Remembrances; they have often brought me to reality when I fall out of it:
- I am of the nature to grow old. I cannot escape growing old.
- 2. I am of the nature to have some ill health; I cannot escape having ill health.
- I am of the nature to die. I cannot escape death.
- All that is dear to me, and everyone I love, are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.
- I inherit the results of my body, speech, and mind. My actions are my strength, my continuation.
I accept this as my reality, the truth, and not just a wish or another fact. But not today, not now. These are not things to fear or worry about but to know.
When I understand the truth about what I can and can’t control and the reality of my life, the fear – and the wrong things I do to try not to feel it – begin to cease and shrink.
It is emotions that bring fear, not reality. The storm was more evidence of it.
Was I really terrified of not being on the Internet? Of the bathtub not draining? Of a tree falling? Of the wind howling? Of freezing to death in front of two intense wood fires?
And in the presence of my firm and loyal wife? I breathe in the fear and blow it out. There is nothing, in reality, to keep it there. It is false, the way I have been lying to myself all my life.
I was lying to myself again.
Who am I?
I am strong. I love my life. I know in my head what to fear and what not to fear. I’m a scholar and survivor of fear.
I know my purpose. I know who I love. I have never surrendered, quit, or run away. The wind outside the window is my soul screaming to tell the truth, and be strong. I listened to it.
Emotions are just emotions. Meditation do two things. They stop in the first breath and calm in the second.
Bit by bit, my life resurfaced.
The power came on. The Internet was restored. Lulu’s abscess was lanced. My stomach felt better.
The wind died down; the storm crept away in the night. I dug out my car and drove into town.
And this morning, as I knew it would, the blue sky ended my sinking into despair. It is always there. I always look for it; it always speaks to me and is always waiting for me.
In our world, in the story of my life, there is so much fear, suffering, violence, and despair.
But there is also and always the blue sky. After every storm, it reveals itself, sometimes in tiny peeks, sometimes not at all, sometimes entirely.
I am always there to look at it.
It tells me to begin anew. To bathe myself in the clear waters of my spirit.
To remind me that it is in my nature to be strong. The only thing to fear is fear.
Thank you for your vulnerability and courage to share the dark night of the soul you just experienced. We will all fall into dark places and I will remember this post and it will give me strength to endure. Merry Everything, my friend.
beautiful post Jon. You have revealed so much about yourself…..very soul-baring………. and that (hopefully) feels cleansing for you in a way. You DO have great strength and power…….channeling it is what is the key…….and I think you have unlocked that and are continually working on it. Thank you for sharing this very deep part of your soul. I trust this was not a simple thing to do…….but you are growing and sharing more and more, and it is healing for *me*!
Susan M
Thank you for sharing this, Jon. You wrote so much truth. I wish I had the words to tell you what this post means to me. I am in awe.
I am grateful for this post…especially the fifth remembrance.
My actions are the only power I have. I will continue to try and make them matter to those I love, know and trust.
Thank you Jon.
Storms and sickness ARE scary. They encroach upon and break through our reasonable precautions and preparations.
Our resolve weakness. We feel crazy, not ourselves.
Then our inner strength comes forth.
Maria, your sleeping dogs, the tree, the house, knew YOU would return and it would be ok. And it was.
Then you dug out your car and drove to town. .Incredible!!!
Whew! What a journey.
Wow…
I’m glad you were able to grapple with the fear, get thru it and find your balance.
And, of course, that blue sky at storms end always helps.
Blessings to you, Maria and all the Critters.
Tracey
Thank you Jon, this post was so well expressed and was relevant to many of our generation who do not have your gift of words.
My 84th birthday looms in January and I’m finding it extremely difficult to accept that both physically and mentally I’m slowing down. Dealing with frustration and anxiety is one of the burdens of ageing. I am trying to accept this graciously but it is difficult!
Hope you and Maria have a peaceful 2023.
Your long time and faraway follower. Pat Bryson ?
I appreciate you.
I loved this, Jon. Fears are feelings, dangers are real. Fear gets transmitted to us, by our parents, teachers, siblings, communities, the media. As children, our brains are wired, literally, by the environments around us. And as you showed, by going within, asking questions, calming yourself, we CAN rewire our brains – even as older adults. Being curious, according to my counselor, will help us find our way. Thank you for sharing your journey. It has helped me so very much.
By far the most clearly inspiring piece I have ever read by you, my friend. Each word carved painstakingly from suffering, to hope. Thank you.
I’m so sorry you suffered and were not feeling well in the midst of such a big storm. Sometimes sickness brings a strange way where the brain travels dark pathways more easily like a little child running in the dark.
Blessings of love and peace to you and Maria, and to each animal in your beautiful family and farm life.
I also loved the larger truths that rose up from the fear you experienced. It feels like you came to a place of love for all the things of who you are, including the storm of fear and other emotions.
Great piece Jon. It is natural to be afraid of danger, but it is how we deal with it that matters.
If you have a generator, why on earth didn’t you use it?
Joe, we don’t use a generator unless we know the power will be off for a long time – 10 or more hours. The electric company texted us almost immediately that the power would be out for four to six hours, and they were right on the money. It makes no sense to haul the generator, disconnect the power to figure out which lights can be sacrificed, and then undo it a few hours later. We sat down by the fire, talked, had some food, meditated, and soaked up some silence. We’ve dealt with it many times before.
It was initially frightening for me (not Maria), then fine.
This might not be your business, but I assume you are asking out of the concern and not contempt, despite the tone of your message. That deserves an answer. The generator is primed and tested, and we have fuel for it.
We will use it if we need it; if we don’t, we won’t. It seems quite obvious and simple to me, and also very logical. We are not stupid or reckless, and the outage in freezing temperatures does not threaten food or medicine. It’s a lot of work to get a big generator out and hooked up; as it happened, there was no reason to do it. As I wrote, a conjunction of things made me anxious and kept me anxious all day long – the wind, the plumbing, the power, ice, rain, wind, snowLulu’s abscess, my stomach bug. the power went on and off several times.
I hope this answers your question. I don’t owe anyone apologies or explanations for what I feel or do, but it seemed a fair question.
Please don’t ask it again, jon.
I love so much that you share your vulnerabilities.
I began a Stoic practice earlier this year and have been working on understanding and living with the things that I have always feared. Your post today could not have been more timely and helpful for me. I’m deeply appreciative of your willingness to be so truthful about your experience with fear and overcoming, Jon.
Jon, I think it is natural for the brain and body to try and always establish equilibrium to protect it from dying. That would be human nature. I would have been very afraid in those circumstances you describe. My fear (anxiety) would have prevented me from reading a book though, I couldn’t have concentrated. I have read thousands of your posts and this would be in the top ten. Extremely gifted prose you possess and am I thankful you have the foresight or ability to write this at a time like you were having. While reading this, I had the nagging thought that we all are susceptible to the elements of nature. You can’t escape it. And that storm came through where I live at 24 below and a windchill of -40. I am thankful of your writing this as not many could with great soul-bearing honesty.
Jin,
I am clearly not alone in how powerful and beautiful your sharing of such vulnerable emotions, feelings and to be honored to bear witness to. Thank you for your deep honesty and sharing it all. The words, for me, are hard to find, but my body and soul are so alive with vulnerability, fear, and a reminder to show up and stay with an open, imperfect tender whole heartedness to love, be joy, in compassion, presence, and loving kindness. in peace and gratitude, Carol?❄️☃️?
Hi Jon and Maria, So pleased that you and the critter family weathered the storm. I was thinking of you, every year at Christmas I watch “Meet John Doe” and every year it has different meaning. The 4th estate,deomocracy, strong women in awful circumstances, bastards looking for power. It is prescient every year. This year I thought of you. You are such an important representative of the fourth estate. Thank you for your strength and your kindness.
Jon,
I have struggled with the very same question of who I am many times during the dark moments of imbalance and fear. It came to me, that after a lifetime of trying to figure out just who I am l, it became more important to understand why I am. This question has sustained the overwhelming joy of beng present alongside the true nature and connection to the larger importance of why everything is. Who I am just is. No longer a mystery, never even a thought. Why I am brings me home, and the ability to stand in the fear with greater understanding.
I hope your time away was nurturing and will sustain you through the continuation of this winters shenanigans.