The forecasting began over a week ago, “Cold front coming
folks and moisture from the south means ICEY conditions. We’ll keep you up-to-date.” Over and Over the
words were repeated, “With Arctic air arriving on Friday and moisture from the
Pacific and the Gulf colliding, the conditions can only mean disaster. Make
sure you have your survival kits, stay off the roads, school closing are
running at the bottom of the screen…..” Tension hung in the air, not ice.
Visceral memories of previous ice storms--four days without
power, solid ice on roads, trees, people iced into their homes, and cell phones
running down, created a mob effect at the grocery stores.
By Thursday I’d seen enough television to know that the area
in purple could expect
devastating effects from the ice; red meant three quarters of an inch of ice expected on power
lines and trees for a moderate effect; orange
meant enhanced; yellow
meant slick; turquoise meant a glaze.
Remaining proactive whether about weather or daily life is
important. What I question is the effect of sensationalism on our minds and
bodies. Why do we allow the Media to create such havoc in our lives? We’ve been
blasted from our comfort zone over national politics; the strife and division
created by two simple colors describing who I am NOT—the Red states and the Blue
states; the what if’s and
unknowns of change; of scenes of daily shootings on our streets and the
continued holocaust in the Middle East.
Technology screams in tweets, peeps, gongs, swooshes, and
sirens like a constant train of wrecks on the highway. And we wonder why it is
so hard to relax and enjoy the moment.
Friday dawned cool, dry and refreshing. We took Lucy to North base to run the
fields and sniff the grasses while we walked a cool mile or more. Suddenly, I thought now this is living in the now. The chilling North wind forced itself up my
nose, opening my mind to the multitude of birds in the low grasses. A Killdeer fluttered
away screaming in her protective mode; the Meadowlarks sang and ignored us; the
Red-winged Black Birds swirled and circled around behind us; and dozens of UBBs (unidentified brown birds) fluttered and swarmed low to the ground, giving us a show like an MGM musical. I forgot about the impending doom that
never arrived.
Thanks to the descriptive words of Ivan Doig, I escaped part
of the weekend reading This House of Sky, and realized that drifting
away to the mountains and valleys of Montana allows me to live in the fullness
of the moment, much like meditation. Stopping my hands from rushing over the
keyboard gives me brief moments of sparkle as I watch a tiny House Wren wag its
tail while eating from the bird feeder outside my window. My husband steps in my Art Gecko room to
tell me that the radar shows rain coming within the hour, I reply, “Que Sera,
Sera, Whatever will be will be, I’m sick of the radar you see, Que Sera, Sera.”
He smiled, we hugged and giggled. Now that is a visceral moment of living in the now.