It's been a brutal winter
here in the US, hasn't it? Having earned my badge as an official
Winter Weather Expert surviving the Upper Midwestern winters of my Upper childhood, I am authorized to make that pronouncement. Did you know
that on Thursday, Feb. 13, 2014 there was snow in 49 of the 50 states in the US? And yes, that means Hawaii.
This has been going on since
December, but it wasn't until the first weekend in February that I
found the word to succinctly describe how I feel – disrupted.
There are the obvious
disruptions. Snow needs to be shoveled. Events need to be
rescheduled or canceled. Cars get hit by falling limbs or passing snowplows, which means insurance companies and auto body repair shops have to be contacted, appointments made, schedules readjusted again. The power goes out, which is charming for
about three hours. Then life becomes difficult. Internet
service drops. The house gets cold. Batteries die on devices.
I've been coping pretty well
with the day-to-day existence, but that early February discovery
clarified for me just how much my creative energy has been disrupted. I've still been able to write or compose just about every
day for 10 minutes (sometimes more), but I'm definitely having a harder time getting into the flow. My practice time, which is usually a
warm oasis, has not been as focused. Teaching is more of a refuge than I often find it. Having to concentrate with a student
(or students) means I can't obsessively check the weather forecast or
traffic reports.
Look, here's what I'm trying to
communicate to you.
We're not in charge.
This is the lesson that
I learn over and over again when some unforeseen event disrupts my
Oh-So-Wonderful-Don't-You-All-Wish-You-Had-My Life.
We're not in charge.
Nope. Not even close. And
that is what makes most of us nuts. We'd like to think we are in
charge. We'd like to think we dictate our comings and goings, with
an occasional whimsical day off thrown in to show that we're really
not control freaks. Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day,
I say this over and over again, to myself, and to anyone who will
listen.
We're
not in charge. But I still feel disrupted and here's how I've been dealing with it:
I look up. Frequently. The
winter sky is full of beautiful colors. The blue, on one of those
sunny, bitterly cold days, is gorgeous. I take a mental picture to be
replayed on one of those blisteringly hot days in July that you know
are coming. I look at those leafless trees and marvel at the shape and structure. Until they come
crashing down, they are a wonder.
I get frustrated. I love my
work. Having it disrupted once is a nice change of pace. Having it disrupted on a regular basis is, well, frustrating.
I look out. My backyard,
small as it is, is covered in a deep layer of white, untouched except
for the tracks of George, the neighborhood cat. I'm astonished that
after all of the snow I have seen in my life, I can still have my
breath taken away by that dazzling plane of pure white.
I become exhausted. I don't
like feeling frustrated, so I enter into a mighty battle with myself,
attempting to convince the Me in me that I should relax, I should let
go. The Me in me resists. Exhaustion sets in.
I put on my coat and hat AND
boots AND gloves (pet peeve: no complaining about the weather if you
can't even bother to zip up your coat, let alone wear gloves or
mittens.) I go outside. The dog and I walk as best we can. I
shovel. I marvel in the amount of snow. I marvel that my body can
still shovel, and actually enjoys it. I know, odd. And no, I am NOT
available to come shovel your driveway.
I get anxious. I'd better
leave early in case the trains are running late. No, wait, the
trains aren't even running! Oh great, I'll have to take the trolley
and the El. Are they running? I'll check their Twitter feed. Oh
wait, I'm getting rotten service because the power is out. Dang!
This is ridiculous! To make sure I'm on time, I'll leave an hour
earlier than usual. Best to take along some toiletries in case they
stop running as well and I have to crash at someone's house in the
city tonight. Whose house can I crash at?....
I truck on. If I can make
an appointment or commitment without the potential of too much harm
to myself or others, I do it. I don't give up. I leave early. I've
spent many extra hours these past months hanging out in coffee shops
because the drive wasn't as long as I anticipated or because our
local transit system was running on schedule. That's okay. I made
it to where I needed to be and I was safe. Meetings could happen,
performances weren't canceled, classes were held. Life could go on.
I get annoyed. Buck it up, people. It is only snow. It melts. And while you're at it, stop
complaining. I agree, this winter feels relentless. But your constant complaining is not helping.
I try to attend to tasks on
my daily list. I try to keep the routine because I know that's when
I feel best. Even during the power outages (which, truth be told,
only affected my house on two separate days), I still
practiced. Why not? I don't need electrical power to sing and play
a piano. How lucky am I?
I feel lethargic. My self-diagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder has clearly kicked in. Sleeping in, followed by sitting in a chair all day sounds marvelous. Standing up and doing a small task takes a massive amount of willpower.
I listen. I can tell before
I get out of bed if it has snowed. That distinctive hush. No
traffic, felted silence. Or the whipping of the wind, as it swirls
around outside. The phone ringing at some ridiculous hour. Even from the
second floor, I can hear the machine in the kitchen, “Good Morning,
this is the Lower Merion School District.” I roll over and go
back to sleep.
I become irritated. Even the slightest thing throws me into an internal fit. Who moved the bowl on the entrance table? Why is there that speck of dirt on the floor that I just swept? Why can't that colleague respond to my email now? Practicing compassion for others takes a Herculean effort, at which I fail, miserably, on a regular basis.
I take a deep breath. I sit
in my chair and watch the wind as it whips the power lines and trees
around. I feel gratitude that I am inside a home, filled with love
and warmth. Then I pull out my computer, grateful that the power is
currently on and shoot off some more rescheduling emails.
As I write this post, we've
had no major events for 4 days and even better, there are none in the
forecast. The temperatures have risen and the snow is melting. It
almost feels like all those crazy happenings never happened. Doesn't matter. I'm going to keep practicing the moment-to-moment marvel
of not being in charge. Here's hoping I get it right one of these
times.