Storm Concert

Sandy started out the way rock concerts do, thousands of people all looking forward to the same event, giddy with anticipation, a unified base of excited fans.  Hurricane preparations reminded me of the Springsteen tailgate I enjoyed only weeks before.  Coolers were readied; I donned warm comfortable clothes.  Focused on the same event that night, throngs of us were excited about the experience, fairly sure of the outcome.  As the tiny spec of Bruce leaned into the mic, his heart beat with ours to every familiar lyric.  From far away I looked down at a sea of bodies jumping and swaying below, arms fist-pumping to songs that united us--  a single-minded organism of nostalgic desire, craving our youth.  We owned these songs and they informed who we became.  We were a community that night.  There was no downside to the concert, no aftermath, only a happy shared memory between many hungry hearts.  

A few weeks later, millions braced themselves for the next shared experience.  Sandy united us again, giddy with anticipation.  As the media frothed I was proud of my calm preparedness.  I filled coolers with ice and readied warm comfortable clothes.  It was exciting and I was focused and ready.  I felt fairly sure of the outcome.  My son and I welcomed the power outage as one does an uninvited yet inevitable guest and lit burned candles around the house, giving our home a campfire glow.  We wore our headlamps and listened to seventies rock on the radio.  This was fun, I told my son.  And it was for a while.  Then the storm leaned in and with each downed tree and terrifying swell, my heart beat faster with responsibility and uncertainly.  There was no carload chorus of smiling singing friends to back me in this, I was alone with my son in the storm and my choices were my own. 

With every fierce and yowling gust of wind and beating rain, I perked up to the voice in my head whispering that this storm was not like the others.  Although I’d been riding out hurricanes on the Jersey Shore since childhood, my confidence eroded.  I wedged couch cushions against the windows.  I moved the bed downstairs.  But I wasn’t in this alone, not really.  Friends texted and I read their threads as they moved their families to the basement and strapped on bike helmets, just in case.  I welcomed their senses of humor.  One friend reminded me to breathe.  The texting continued until—one by one—their phone batteries ran out.  But we were in this together, I thought, as I extinguished the candles.  This knowledge calmed me and somehow I slept. 

Tuesday morning our shared experience splintered into thousands of stories—some brimming with luck and some ravaged with misfortune.  I was one of the lucky ones, in too many ways to count.  Friends with power offered my son and me a guest room and I accepted.  My mother found safety, solace and Boggle with her sisters.  Her beach house was unscathed, but information was scant.  Then as the days passed without power, a new normal emerged.  Talk of hot showers and thawing food supplanted jabber about soccer games and carpools.  Schedules dissipated and time slowed.  Rumors of devastation crept in.  One family with power opened their home to ten families without.  A makeshift commune blossomed of group meals and kids’ camp games, charging stations and workspaces.  For a week I experienced peoples’ abundant generosity and heard of others’ hoarding and panic.  As new routines and basic needs were secured, more and more distant friends stopped by and checked in to make sure my son and I were okay.  We joked about wearing the same clothes for days and listened to stories of midnight gasoline forays.  Then the homeowners went on vacation, gave out keys and incredibly, let the commune stay. 

It’s true that we have many selves, reserves of personalities to draw upon befitting the times.  We have a storm self, a vacation self, a weekend self and more.  Some of my friends had beach houses devastated by the storm, bastions of golden nostalgia, faded by the summer sun.  Their hearts and houses were wrenched from their foundations last week.  Their crisis selves emerged.  They were unified with their neighbors by shock and disbelief.  But friends and strangers rallied like angels.  They sighed then reached down to pulled up the floors. 

We’ve all shared this storm.  It’s now part of who we are.  Some neighborhood relationships brightened with the warmth of shared generators and community meals while others drew a cold breath, preferring to eat and sleep alone.  But community was there for the taking, for those who craved it, they didn’t have to look far.  Resilience, tenacity and a sense of humor kept us going; it keeps me going even now.  We own this storm and it will inform us—like it or not-- as we continue to evolve.  It has dared us to laugh and brought some to tears.  It has amplified who we are at our cores; it has carved a notch in our souls -- like a song that gets under our skin and becomes part of who we are.