Helene update #3

Moving toward some kind of normalcy

Dear Friends,

Apologies in advance for the length of this post. I don’t have much to do these days but write, and writing is a good way to process the swirl of emotions. A balm for the mental fatigue of post-hurricane living. It helps me put things in order.

Today is Day 11 of living off the grid, with a generator keeping vital things running, especially the well pump that gives us water. In that way, we’re privileged and we know it—even as the generator’s fuel tank gets lower and lower.

Our brief flirtation with wifi/cell service was brief indeed. It came, inexplicably … and then it left. So we’re living simple. Board games—backgammon, chess, cribbage—and reading, lots of reading. I’m digging deep into that pile of unread and half-read books on my bedside table. I’ve even unearthed my origami supplies. Folding pretty squares of paper gives me something to do with my hands. It soothes my nervous system.

Every day or so, we venture down the mountain to find Internet connectivity in parking lots and cafes. That’s our only source of news and contact with family. Other days we don’t want to drive that far. For some crazy reason this little waterfall, about a half-mile along the road from our house, is a hot spot with enough bars for texting. A sweet place to sit while connecting to the outside world.

Big thanks to all of you who have sent messages of comfort and support. Our “suffering” is absolutely nothing compared to people in other places in the Southeast who lost so much. Their homes, their belongings, their loved ones. Entire communities in low-lying mountain coves were obliterated by wind and water, as if a giant hand reached down in a fit of fury and swept them off the map. Pack mule teams and ATVs are the only ways to reach people in the most devastated areas, people marooned for days in the wreckage of their homes. “Heartbreaking” is a pale descriptor.

One morning last week, a caravan of three vehicles rolled into our driveway. Good samaritans from the neighborhood Baptist church, plus a husband and wife who had driven all night from Ohio to help out.

“Our church has a disaster response team,” the husband told me, pointing to the place on his T-shirt where it said CHAPLAIN. He’s the guy carrying the water to our front steps. I gave him a tearful hug.

I tried to tell them we were okay, that our generator is giving us power when we run it, that we can drive to town for supplies. Even so, they really wanted to give us some essentials. So we said yes. A lot of this generosity I will pass on to others who need it more. (Full/guilty disclosure: We’re keeping the graham crackers.)

Thank you — so much

Friends, I’ve really been cheered by your expressions of caring. Our Rx Nature family has gained a lot of new members recently, and I welcome you all. I guess you found me because I’m tagging my posts with “Hurricane Helene.” Some of you newbies opted for a paid subscription, and some of you who’ve been here for awhile upped your subscription level. I didn’t ask for that, but it’s beyond lovely and I thank you SO much! You have helped, please know that. (I’m missing two weeks of work, unfortunately, and if the propane delivery truck ever makes it up here, the bill will be about $2,000 to refill our tank.)

You have no idea what bright spots your messages are, and how they help soften the psychoemotional stress.

One of my new subscribers is Sylvia, in France. I don’t know Sylvia. I don’t know how she found me here on Substack. But along with her paid subscription, she sent these words across the ocean. They ring in my heart:

Sylvia, mon amie, vous etre une ange!

(By the way, my goal was/is to reach 1,000 subscribers by the end of this year—the second anniversary of Rx Nature. Please pass the word and recommend this newsletter to others. At 957, we are so close to my goal!)

Notes from nature

Mother nature has taken a huge beating here in these mountains. Even so, she offers solace … in her own way and if I’m paying attention:

• The birds are happy.

An Eastern phoebe lives in our woods. I've written about her before and how she drives us nuts, the little opera diva that she is. Nowadays her song makes me happy. Pete and Paula, our resident pair of pileated woodpeckers, also make a lot of noise as they flit from treetop to treetop. The storm did not drive them away. They rode it out, just as we did.

• Migrators are migrating.

The last of this season’s hummingbirds, a few stragglers, are still sipping at our feeders. How they survived that tempest—a storm that felled tens of thousands of giant trees—I do not know. As soon as Helene blew through and we hung the feeders back up, those tiny beings were doing their usual dive-bomb, attack-each-other antics. Just now, as I sat on our front porch typing this post, a pair of monarchs arrived to explore the mistflower in our native meadow garden. More fragile beings who somehow (at least some of them) persist in their ancient rites, even in a world of great dangers.

• The striped stone is gone.

Last winter, I wrote about a beautiful stone I found in our creek. After hoarding it awhile, I felt guilty and returned it to its watery home. I found a logjam in the stream, a pretty place where I could tuck the stone into a crevice where it would be safe. Every time we walked our trail, I would visit the stone, dipping my feet in the creek. Yesterday I found that the floodwaters snatched it away. I dug all around the log, increasingly upset, but … no stone. It’s gone. I have to let go. It’s what we do, every moment of our lives.

• The forest fairies returned home.

You remember these tiny figures. They were a gift from my daughter. I had so much fun placing them in the mystical fern circle in our forest. They’ve lived there several months now, beside a singing stream. The night before the storm, I worried that our creek would carry them away as the waters rose. That creek gets mighty swift, even in a normal rainstorm. So I brought the fairies up to the house, where they received a nice warm soapy bath and rested in an empty margarine tub. Today I returned them to their sylvan home. Joy all around.

• I cleaned the Earth altar.

Without work, without Internet, I am rich with time. Yesterday I sat down on the floor and tackled the task of cleaning my Earth altar. This is a labor of love I don’t often get to. Everything was dusty. The bird nests were fragile and crumbly. Each feather had to be brushed off individually.

Moving slowly, handling each item with care, I admired their textures and patterns. The  swirling spiral of a snail shell. The delicate airiness of the feathers. The interlocking squares on a turtle shell. Those intricate scales of the snakeskin, and the cells in the wasp nest. Nature’s small beauties, her quiet gifts … it all moved me to tears.

No power yet—but maybe soon

I’ll close with some sobering news. The rural cooperative that supplies our power, Blue Ridge Electric, announced yesterday that they’ve restored power to 95 percent of their customers.

We are the unlucky 5 percent. I accept that. It’s the price of living in a remote place, in mountainous terrain where it’s extremely hard for the power crews to replace broken poles and string power lines across steep slopes that are littered with fallen trees. The word “treacherous” comes to mind.

About 15 families live along our two-mile mountain road. Maybe 35 people in all, including kids who need to go to school, a month-old baby in the house just below us, and what some are charitably describing as “elderly residents.” (Surely they’re not referring to me. Nah!)

There are two roads leading in and out of our community. The day after Helene, one of those roads, the one that crosses the Eastatoee River, became impassable when the bridge over the river collapsed.

So we’re limited to only one other road. Early on, that road was completely blocked by downed trees. Strong, young neighbors with chainsaws dug us out. What was once a lovely, winding mountain road suffused in magical green light is now lined on both sides with sawed-off tree trunks and jumbles of branches. Where oaks and tulip poplars and hickories once reached to the sky, gaps in the crown let in a confusion of sunlight.

It used to be a beautiful drive, the way home that made my heart sing. Now … it makes my heart sad.

Just today, electric repair crews started working their way along this road. Troops from the National Guard moved ahead of them, removing trees that were leaning on power lines.

As we started to drive up to the waterfall (so I could send this post out to you all), we saw a beautiful sight up ahead: blinking hazard lights. Power trucks, a whole fleet of them, were parked in both lanes. One of the trucks was loaded with long poles. Workers in reflective vests milled about like bees. Across the road from our driveway, a guy in a bucket truck worked on the connections at the top of a pole.

I blew them kisses and stood in the middle of the road to take photos. We’ve been waiting for this day.

Blessings to all

I hope my next post will be a reflective one, looking back on this experience from the other side. We shall see. Every day brings something different—new chances, fresh hope.

Meanwhile … I send blessings to all of you, my friends, in all the places you are, where you love the nature that surrounds you. My advice: Express your love for your place in whatever ways you can, as often as you can.

Hug trees. Wade in water. Sing hymns of praise to the beauty. Lay your body on the Earth and whisper love to her.

Because it all could change drastically overnight. It takes only one storm, one flood, one wildfire.

Finally … I send blessings to all beings— especially those harmed by this storm, by other storms, by war and famine, by oppression, injustice, hatred.

We live in a world of great sorrow, don’t we? And a world of great beauty.