It started as I was stepping out of the bathtub the other morning. I slipped, one leg in, the other out, into a sort of bare-butt split that landed me down hard on the tile floor. The only real injury I sustained was a badly stubbed middle toe. But within two hours, the bruise was a brilliant black and purple and it hurt to walk. I couldn’t put on a shoe. My toe swelled and pulsed, as if my heart was beating inside it.
Wincing, I made it to my book group that evening, to a meeting the next morning. But by then a few other things were going wrong. A son called, in some trouble at school. A wild storm of gusty wind and heavy snow knocked the power out, not only at our house, but at 300,000 other rural New England homes. I drove around for a while on slippery roads, buying coffees I didn’t really want, in search of Internet access at cafes with wi-fi so I could get some work done. No luck.
That night, as it became clear that power wouldn’t be restored any time soon, Steve and I returned to our cold, dark house, fumbled around for a flashlight, and gathered up a few things. The house plants were dry as bone. A week’s worth of dirty laundry was piled in the bedroom. I thought of the bags of summer raspberries and blueberries thawing in the freezer, and wondered why we hadn’t bought a generator after last year’s ice storm. (But aren’t generators a bit like umbrellas? Who buys one when it’s not raining?) Camped out at a friend’s house, I discovered that the “contact” part of my website hadn’t been functioning for a while, and that all e-mails addressed to me were apparently disappearing into some vast spam file in the sky. (If you’ve written to me within the last three weeks and haven’t heard back, that’s why!)
By the end of yesterday, crews had removed the fallen trees from our road and the electricity was back, though it turned out that our heating system had failed. Wearing long underwear, a hat, and my down parka, I fired up the gas stove, flushed the toilets, watered the poor plants, and began to unpack and set the house to rights. My neighbor Debbie stopped by, to fill her water jugs from our tap and see how we were making out.
“So many things aren’t working!” I complained, feeling exhausted and annoyed and sorry for myself.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “But think how many things ARE working!”
Of course, she had me. Beyond the window, huge snowflakes were drifting slowly down, softening the hard edges of the world. Inside, the water was running again and a flick of the switch brought light. All over town, people were still waiting for power and ours was restored. My toe had just about shrunk back to normal size. The food in the freezer was still frozen. And after a few phone calls and a $200 emergency visit from the heating contractor, I knew we would be warm again, too.
I scooped up the pile of laundry from the floor — summer clothes, the contents of our California suitcases. And then I had to smile. Suddenly, instead of seeing a pile of dirty clothes, I saw a reminder of our week’s worth of west-coast adventures and good times with friends old and new. I looked around at our house, cold still, but just fine, full of books and paintings and afghans and tables and chairs. . .the stuff of home. I could rummage around in the refrigerator and find enough food for dinner. The e-mails would wait. Yeah, I had to admit, a few things in my life aren’t working. But I don’t have to look far to see plenty that are.
Today, the house is warm. My son Henry has somehow fixed my website and retrieved the missing e-mails (answers to come soon!). My toe has healed enough for me to put on sneakers and take a run. A quick look on YouTube shows that my video of A Gfit of an Ordinary Day has been seen by nearly 800,000 people. And the book is selling slowly and steadily. After a good night’s sleep in my own bed, I’m feeling decidedly more cheerful.
Debbie, an e. coli survivor who understands more about chronic pain than anyone I know, just completed twelve weeks of IV iron treatments and still spends quite a few hours a week curled up with a heating pad. She makes a daily practice of ignoring what’s not working and focusing instead on what is. As always, I learn from her example. Someday, maybe, I’ll get it.
What a good reminder … I often find that all the wonderful things that ARE working are occluded by one or two misfires or problems … how hard it is for me to get the perspective you describe here.
Thank you for reminding me to do so!
xo
Loved this post, as always. It was fun to hear how you survived in the same storm that kept my relatives without power for a week or so. (they DID buy a generator, I ‘m so jealous!) I found myself writing a blog post about thankfulness this weekend too. We do have so much to be thankful for, if nothing else, that we woke up healthier than a lot of people who surround us. (Cheers for Debbie!) Here’s to a peaceful, content week, the first of a brand new month. 🙂
Judy
justonefoot.blogspot.com
We, too, survived the same storm. I find that I am humbled by the snow – just when you think that you are in control of your life, something like this happens to remind you that we aren’t the ones in control at all – be safe and warm and wait in anticipation for the spring that will eventually come!
I love Debbie! She’s the kind of neighbor I would so love to have. Lucky you!
My dad used to tell me to learn to look at the "good" sdie of the balance sheet of life. Even if there are less entries on it, it’s more fun to read! It’s a process I wish was already completed in me but, like you, I’m getting there…
This is a lesson I’ve been taught over and over by my life’s mentors, especially my Mother who is the embodiment of positivity. She claims she owns several pairs of rose-colored glasses. 🙂
Being taught this lesson, and internalizing it is another. It takes a lo—oooot of practice if you are not blessed with that natural disposition. However, seeing the blessings in the everyday and ordinary (as you so eloquently remind us) is the practice that leads to internalization of the lesson. All the little blessings of a day add up, fill our souls and sustain us in the more difficult times in our lives.
However, I think it is also okay to wallow in self-pity now and then! Sometimes things come at us unexpectedly, or add up to a point where we feel overwhelmed. A day of self-indulgent wallowing is nothing to feel guilty about. We’re only human after all. We must allow ourselves the pity for the count of five (literally or figuratively) and then pick ourselves and our attitudes up by our bootstraps and move on, counting our blessings. 🙂
Thanks.
This was helpful, even on a rainy day in late April when the crazy forecast calls for snow.
http://emptynestdiary.wordpress.com/2010/03/25/the-rocking-of-the-seasons/
I especially appreciate the part about the frozen berries.
Every winter mine form into a big glob from power loss.
No generator here either. Or even a truck for mud season. Or even four-wheel drive.
But lots and lots of things that are a perfect fit.
Like you, today.
Kelly