Restless. Sleepless. Blame it on the wind? A restless mind?
It’s four in the morning and I cannot sleep. I drank water. Took a shower. Listened to the wind and can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming. And it is. It’s a strange place to be in on a Wednesday morning trying to decide what’s the best way to prepare for what has not happened yet, for what may or may not come. We have technology now that tells us what’s brewing and where, and I need all my tools to get focused, not stress out, and be ready. What can I do with the energy that must be flowing this way?
The Atlantic is a monster to the tiny people in its way, a swirling, churning beast. Our Marines are on the way to help those in the Caribbean with disaster relief, and I am proud that we are going to help. But what about my neighbors, the young couple who don’t have enough money for a hotel room in case we have to evacuate? Take them, their baby, ferret, and cat with me? Oh no, her husband won’t go for that. Pride lives three doors down from me while indecision lives three doors down from them.
The desert island question arises. If I was stranded on a desert island and could only bring three books (or CDs), what would they be? I look at my books sitting quietly on soft mocha shelves and interestingly, surprisingly, they’re the last thing on my mind. Strange feeling, looking at rooms full of special things, knowing I’ll leave them behind in favor of water, food I can eat out of a can, and a hand-crank radio. Where is higher ground, how far will I need to go? Will my “things” be dry when I get home?
But I wanted to stay and “see.” I wanted to stand on the balcony and hear the roar and see the pine needles get hurled through the air, how far will the water rise up and storm the land? Will the Atlantic ask for Willoughby Spit back? No, not this time, I am sure. How much longer will I remain here, preparing (or not) for what is mostly intangible at this moment? The higher tides and higher wind gusts tell me something’s brewing. And I can’t sleep.