We woke up early this morning, and when we started talking, we realized we were frightened.
First, we felt for the many people in Florida (and North Carolina) who lost their homes, sometimes their lives, their hopes, and the way they live.
We started wondering how they could be helped and what their future holds. Then, looking out the window at the farm, home, and animals we love, we both kept reading and hearing that these awful storms and even fires would hit the Northeast—Vermont is struggling to deal with flooding.
I keep thinking of all these people who are losing their dreams, money, and peace of mind. I kept hearing the people in Florida talking about losing their “paradise,” a retirement and reward for decades of hard work.
Bedlam Farm is a paradise, although we rarely use the world. Politics disturbs many people, and storms, fires, and floods are even more frightening.
We are happy here, happy with each other, with our dogs, donkeys, and cats, and with our farm, happier than we have ever been.
We were frightened this morning; the human suffering in Florida and the Southeast is more than I imagined. It’s not something to dwell on but something to acknowledge.
We sat in bed wondering what we would do if our old farmhouse were hit by a Hurricane, oddly named Milton. If a baseball stadium in Florida couldn’t survive Milton, what would happen to our small farmhouse? And what would happen to our animals, our dogs, donkeys, cats, chickens, and sheep?
How could we feed them? Where could they go?
And what about us? Where would we go? Where would we live? Many Americans ask themselves the same questions tonight while leaders argue and scheme.
We decided to stop being afraid and remember our sleeves. We would face whatever reality came, talk about it, offer and choose solutions, and carry them out.
We might have to move away, perhaps to a location near our farm, perhaps in a trailer, or perhaps in a barn or wood shed.
We would do what we have always done—see how the neighbors were and what they were thinking. Could we figure out what resources were available to us and what resources weren’t? If we had to find new homes for the animals or, worse, put them down, how would we do it?
We both felt better. We would do what we needed to do, what we always do. We would not give up on life. We would not give in to fear or greed. We would each support the other. We talked about living in an RV. We talked about never living in fear.
Someone’s basement or attic, or maybe near a farm where the donkeys and sheep could live and the dogs could run. We would never give up.
We would consider living the simple life we’ve always fantasized about. We would give thanks for being with one another. We would provide lives for the thanks and things we have learned about the forest—what we could eat and what we couldn’t.
We could look for ways to help others, something we know is grounding, and what many religious figures—Jesus included—believed was the destiny of spiritual humans. We would not spend our lives whining and lamenting our misfortune.
We had enough. We both felt better. We would figure it out. Storms have their way and are coming to us; we take them seriously. But we can never really know for sure what they will do.
Storms are scary, and so are the disturbing tensions of politics.
But we’ve done it before. When you are knocked down, you get up. Suffering is a rare opportunity to be human and focused on helping others. We would be us. We would be okay.
Tonight, our hearts go out to the suffering; if we can help, we will pursue it. Tonight, I hold them in the light.
Storms and politicians will not pull us out of paradise and into Hell because paradise is not something outside of us; it’s something inside of us. Nothing, no politician, no natural force, can pull it out of our hearts.
It will be up to us, as it has always been.
