Falling stars

As the upcoming Resonance concert* approaches, the talk list has carried a lot of discussion among chorus members about the meaning of some of the songs and some of the lyrics. Some of this discussion has focused on poetic descriptions of nature—the meaning of phrases like "orange sticks of the sun" and "ponds ... like black cloth on which are painted islands of summer lilies." Another, but related, thread has explored the relationship between ourselves and nature—specifically the notion that we humans are responsible for great damage done to nature through our own acts. Especially, I have to say, the acts of the wealthiest and most powerful humans. Which includes (at least most of) us.

To me, these two topics seem connected. They are linked by their attention to the two sides of our (ambivalent) relationship with the natural world. On the one hand, we cherish and celebrate nature in all her wild glory. And on the other, we seem driven not to cherish but to claim, tame, and own nature's bounty. The reverence is seen in our striving to find words that can capture nature's magnificence. The sense of dominion is seen in our tendency to ignore even the messages so clearly written in melting ice caps and rising temperatures, in displaced and vanished species and increasingly frequent extreme weather events telling us, shouting at us, that our relationship with the planet is in deep trouble, and we bear the responsibility for that trouble. In the past few weeks, I've come across several articles about this general domain that seem particularly compelling. Which is to say that it's hard for me to imagine that we wouldn't be compelled by these stories to at least think about our responsibility vis-à-vis the planet. (If you harbor any doubt about that responsibility, check out the most recent report of the UN's Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change.) 

So, three stories that might give us all pause ...

The first story may seem obscure at first glance, but not so much when you consider the implications. The basic story is that scientists recently discovered a 30,000-year-old virus preserved in the Siberian permafrost. Since this virus apparently infects only single-cell organisms, it's not a direct risk to humans. Still, this finding raises the possibility that as the climate warms, ancient viruses of other sorts might emerge that could infect humans. Consider, for example, what might happen if ancient Neanderthal viruses melted out of the thawing permafrost (or not-so-permafrost). Our immune systems haven't evolved to deal with these archaic viruses, so humans could be at huge risk. This could be a mighty high price to pay for our refusal to notice what we're doing to the planet.

A second story might also seem remote from most of us—in space if not in time—but it turns out not to be. We've heard for years that glaciers and polar ice are melting at increasingly rapid rates—faster, even, than the rate predicted by most climate change models. Glaciologists have recently suggested that one of the factors leading to this rapid melting is small particles of dust and soot that darken the ice and snow. The darker color absorbs more heat, thereby increasing the speed of melting. One source of this "dark snow" is distant forest fires. And, to take the next step, we know that the overall pattern of increasing temperatures and increasingly frequent and severe wildfires is associated with climate change and with human incursions into wildland areas. Again, our role in the spiral of increasing damage to the earth is not hard to spot.

Finally, the recent tragic mudslide in Washington State provides another cautionary tale. In this circumstance—as in situations where wildfires claim lives and property in the wildland-urban interface or floods do the same near bodies of water—we have chosen to locate our lives in the paths of danger, even as we exacerbate that danger by our own actions. In the case of the Washington slide, a major landslide had been predicted in this location for some time—in fact, this same hill had slid several times in the recent past. Yet, questionable logging practices continued, and folks continued to live in this lovely valley at the beautiful foot of this precarious hill. As if we weren't at risk. As if we weren't responsible—either for what might happen (the "act of nature") or for how we deal with known "natural" risks. In this case, as in many, we can add to the (perhaps naive or misinformed) denial of danger on the part of homeowners the persistent, intractable politics of avarice and greed: the fear that land will lose value if you tell people it’s dangerous. And the equally obstreperous egocentrism of the libertarian call for freedom from government regulation. Just how large a role is played by these forces was recently documented in a story about political obstacles to landslide mapping that underlines again our collective role in all this.

There's a line in one song, "Requiem," that refers to our having “fallen from grace.” One chorus member suggested that this "fall" may lie in our failure to be proper stewards of the marvelous planet we're privileged to inhabit. When I read her comment, I agreed immediately and wholeheartedly—and perhaps self-righteously. Still, as I reflect on this now, I’m reminded of my own easy disregard for the environmental costs of my daily activities, of my tendency to ignore some personal violations of that stewardship when convenience beckons. Or to write off some such acts (unnecessary driving) by appeals to my conscientious attention to other areas (recycling CFL light bulbs). Even though I know full well that I am, in fact, responsible for both acts.

As I wander around in this topic, I keep thinking about the surprising connections among apparently disparate elements of our experience. I think of the connection between fires in Colorado and ice melt in the Arctic. Between 30,000-year-old viruses and future health threats, linked by the 200-year-old industrial revolution. I think of a town buried or burned or flooded in a slide or wildfire or storm surge—nature thrown off balance in the wake of individual convictions and collective policies based on misinformation, disinformation, and monetary myopia. And I also think of the connection between nature and ourselves. Which is actually an absurd thing to say, now that I think about it, since we are, after all, part of nature.

And with this, I return to the stars. I wrote about this before, and it comes back to me often: We are all—every virus, person, creature, plant, rock, snowfield, and planet, every flame and slide and flood—made of the stuff of stars. Maybe if we could just remember that, we’d treat one another and the planet better.

But we’d have to remember it. Really.

------------------------------------- 

*For details about this concert, check out the recent blog on the topic here.

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2014. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post.

To comment on this post, click on "No comments" (or "2 comments" etc.) below. Comments from "anonymous" welcome.

Resonance "retreats"

I spent a chunk of the weekend hanging out with Resonance, the women’s chorus I’m volunteering with, at their annual retreat near Estes Park. It was a complicated mix: driving through some of the areas most damaged by the floods, soaking up the pleasure of working with this chorus, and delighting in the beauty of the mountains, where I’ve spent virtually no serious winter time for years.

Estes Park and the roads to it witnessed some of last summer’s most severe flooding. The main road to Estes follows one of the canyons most dramatically affected, and traffic there is still slowed by construction, so I took a more roundabout route. This canyon, too, saw serious flooding, and signs of it were everywhere. I could have taken uncounted pictures of damaged structures, missing bridges, debris caught 10 feet high in trees, and piles of boulders where none belonged. Instead, I caught this one view of an old church sitting high on a solid rock—a fortunate location during those days in September. The flood left the church perched higher than before, and the open valley below is still littered with trees and stumps and tangles of branches, despite now months of clean-up work. To the west and above the church is the mountain drainage that funneled the exceptionally heavy rains down the slopes and toward the church. Variations on these scenes linger all around this part of Colorado.

Scenes from the flood receded and the beauty of this area took over as I arrived Friday afternoon at the YMCA camp where the retreat was held. Here's the late-afternoon scenery that greeted me and views of the hills as the sun set. Home, for a couple of days, to me and about 125 other women. Not to mention hundreds of other folks who came here for retreats, for meetings, or just to hang out and enjoy the mountains in the middle of winter. I was officially "on retreat." 

     

     

     

Now, in truth, as the “Assistant Maven,” I had virtually no responsibilities at this retreat, but it was a great chance to get to know the group better and to watch another large piece of their process. I spent the weekend sharing a cabin with three singers I knew before I assumed my new role, which gave me a wonderful base for my exploration into this new side of Resonance. Friday night, we had fine conversation and dinner together, then talked some more and laughed ourselves silly over a card game before crashing (too late) in anticipation of a daylong rehearsal (for them) on Saturday.

Saturday was a remarkable day for me. It started with an early-morning walk with one of my cabin mates. But the serious wake-up call came with the wave of energy that struck me as I entered the rehearsal venue. There was this marvelous buzz made up of about equal parts chatter, laughter, and a sort of amorphous hum of movement and, well, energy. This in the community I craved. Then the singers settled into their places, and I sank into a chair in the back to listen. The day officially began with the requisite warm-up exercises. I had kind of tuned out, thinking there wasn’t much to listen to (it was warm-ups, for Pete’s sake!). Then suddenly, as I was starting to send an email to my partner, their voices just stopped me mid-word. I was stunned by the size and the beauty of their sound. I sat there, smiling, and just listened. Later in the day, before the director knew about my moment of awe, I heard her call such experiences “aesthetic arrest.” Good description. I didn't get back to that email for some time. 

I hung out in the back listening to the chorus rehearse for the rest of the morning, hearing them fine-tune a song from lovely to exceptionally lovely (to my untrained but very appreciative ear) and then work on a couple more before taking a lunch break. At some point, I’ll probably stop commenting on how wonderful I find their process to be—but not yet. It’s so impressive to me to see them moving with such precise attention to each piece of each song. It made me wonder all over again at how much work it takes to put together an entire concert, especially of the quality I heard that morning. Although I know that "retreat" has a particular meaning here, nothing I saw from Resonance looked like anything but joyful reaching forward. 

Then, in the afternoon, while they worked some more, I took advantage of the locale and headed farther up the mountain to a trailhead reported to offer great snowshoeing (well, it is a retreat, after all). I used to snowshoe quite a lot, and I grew accustomed to trails that were fairly remote and lightly used. I sometimes walked for hours without seeing anyone. But this was different. It was in Rocky Mountain National Park, close to Estes, and the area draws a lot of visitors, even in January. It was quickly apparent that this was the case with the particular trailhead I found, a hub for several trails. The scene in the parking hardly foretold a wilderness adventure. 

But the day was beautiful, the snow was really nice, and I was eager for a winter walk in the woods. So I set off up the trail to Nymph Lake. Despite the late-ish hour, there were still a lot of people on the trail—including, to my amazement, people negotiating this narrow, sometimes steep hiking trail on regular downhill skis. Apparently that sport passed me by at some point. The walk was invigoratingly uphill, and I loved both the scenery, with the the low light peeking through the trees, and the exercise.

The lake itself is a classic small mountain lake, set in a depression formed by a glacier, and surrounded by forest. It lies beneath some of Rocky Mountain NP’s craggy peaks, and the wind plays across the thick, opaque ice in snowy gusts. 

As I headed back down the trail, getting chillier by the minute, I found myself wondering how cold it might be at the top of those high peaks as they lost the bare warmth of the sinking sun. 

Back at the Y camp, I visited the end of rehearsal, enjoyed a quick dinner with my friends back at our cabin, and then joined them for the walk back to the talent show, an annual ritual of funny, gorgeous, and thought-provoking offerings by members of the chorus. And just in case the performance art wasn’t enough, there was an art show in the lobby, also displaying the work of chorus members. This is indeed a multi-talented group I’ve hitched a ride with.

I started Sunday with another early-morning walk with my cabin mate, talking about the retreat, about life and aging, and about the scenery. How could we not comment on the sight we were treated to as when we turned around to return to the cabin. 

I left early Sunday morning to pick up my partner at the Denver airport. As I started down the mountain, I spotted this scene—the winds whipping clouds and snow across the high peaks. 

   

What a fine finish to my weekend sojourn into the glorious mountains. No wonder they "retreat" here every year.   

“The fine line ...

… between nature’s beauty and her indifference.”

It’s a phrase I read in a Time magazine description of movies featuring a single protagonist caught on this line (“Cast Away,” “Into the Wild,” “127 Hours,” “Gravity”). It’s a perfect description of our ambivalent feelings about nature: our delight in her beauty and diversity and our ultimate powerlessness over the magnificent forces that we still can’t control. (Although we do influence them … more on that in another blog, coming soon). Being a weather freak, I think about this a lot.

It’s been an amazing year in Colorado weather-wise. Of course, folks in Colorado (and in New England and Michigan and San Francisco … heck, folks everywhere) are fond of saying of the local weather, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes. It will change.” Still, it’s true that Colorado has all the makings of dramatically erratic weather. The high altitude and low humidity combine with that amazing wall of mountains bisecting the state from north to south to stir up some complex and only vaguely predictable weather patterns. But this year has been one for even Colorado’s record books. Over and over.

Only slightly belaboring the point, it went like this. A very dry winter that left the snow pack far below average was followed by record-breaking precipitation in April and May, raising the snow pack in the mountains to normal levels in a few weeks and bringing much-needed rain to lower elevations. Then the rains ended, and a parching drought set in that lasted all summer. With it came record-breaking fires, fires that reached new levels of intensity, speed of growth, and degree of devastation to wildlands and property. The early rains added long grasses to the fuel—but there was already plenty of fodder for the fires. (More on that in another blog, coming soon.) Then this summer of virtually zero rain slid toward fall, culminating in record high temperatures in early September. Ironically, news coverage of that record heat wave predicted a “welcome” cool-down and increased chance of rain a couple of days later. The cooler weather was welcome, but not (for a change in Colorado) the rain. In just 10 days of record-breaking rain, the early-summer fires receded from the weather news to be replaced by the late summer floods. The “thousand-year rain,” the “hundred-year flood,” the signs of which were still all-too evident on walk near my home earlier this week.

             

Then, remarkably, nature’s indifference gave way to her beauty, and we’re suddenly gifted with this amazing variegated fall with its spectacular morning skies—a chance for some pictures, which have been missing from my recent, more text-dense blogs. Not that I’m finished talking, of course. But before I start, an interlude:

Fabulous fall …

  

... and its spectacular morning skies

  

 

A fine line, indeed.

The flood: Take 2

The flood has been very much on my mind this past week—no surprise to anyone who lives in northern Colorado. When I wrote last week, I talked about being amazed by people’s resilience in the face of such tragedy and unending stress. I’m still amazed by that, but I also realize, increasingly, that it may have been the fact that I was not directly impacted by the flood that let me drift into an outsider-looking-in celebration of resilience. Since then, I’ve encountered the flood on a new level. While I still celebrate resilience, I feel like my earlier blog focused on that to the neglect of the awful moments, days, and weeks that people have endured during and in the wake of these floods. Especially, I failed to hear the stories that don’t make the news. The ones we—or at least I—really need to hear.

So, The flood: Take 2.

It’s now being called the 1,000-year rain, the 100-year flood. This doesn’t mean that rain like this comes regularly once every 1,000 years or a flood like this once every 100 years. If that were true, we could prepare for these events. Instead, it means that rain like this has 1 chance in 1,000 of happening in any given year, a flood like this has only 1 chance in 100 of happening in any given year. Either (or both) could happen next year … in fact, the odds for that happening will still be 1/100 and 1/1,000.

These numbers are dramatic descriptions as meteorological statistics go. But more to the point, as the days unfold, I learn more and more about what they mean in human terms.

Over the past week, I have heard a constantly morphing collage of conversations about the post-flood realities that are people’s lives. As we’ve learned more, coffee shop chatter and conversations with friends have changed from how lucky many of us were to talk of just how bad it was. Countless homes were damaged, some beyond repair. Even more basements were flooded—including in “safe” zones well away from streams. Worse, in many of these, the flooding came when over-full sewers surged up into people’s homes. Scores of businesses and public facilities were damaged—libraries with their stores of books, medical facilities with their million-dollar equipment, small businesses barely holding on even before the flood. Homeowner’s and business insurance covers little if any of this, so the consequences will be long lasting—and will spell financial disaster for some. 

The stories from mountain towns are dreadful. Many towns are still shut off from outside travel, although a few key roads were opened late this week. Some folks are taking circuitous routes through the mountains, traveling for hours to get to jobs in Boulder or Denver, where they’ll stay indefinitely. Some towns are unlikely to have any outside connection until next summer. Many people have no home to go back to, even if they could get in.

The worst stories, of course, are those about people who didn’t survive the storm. For days, scores of people were unaccounted for—over 1200 at one point. That number dropped daily as people were able to get out and contact friends or as phone service and cell towers were brought back on line. Still, after a week and a half, the count still stands at 82 people unaccounted for statewide, with 3 missing and presumed dead. The death toll is 4 in Boulder county, 8 statewide.

And then there’s the residual infrastructure mess: roads and bridges, water treatment plants and sewer systems, cell towers, electrical lines, buried cables … the list just keeps growing. Add to that the oil spills. Eastern Colorado is an oil-producing region, and some of those wells were right in the path of this 100-year flood. The spills reported to date are small—especially in the context of millions of gallons of untreated sewage carried by the flood waters. But it’s yet another painful reminder of how vulnerable our human enterprises remain to the capriciousness of nature.

For those of us who felt no direct impact, there are constant reminders of what happened. Trees down, open areas denuded, gravel and debris strewn across lawns. Roads and parking lots still full of mud and debris or bordered by the telltale piles of mud and debris left by graders. Hotels and motels in Boulder and surrounding towns chock full with the cars of local residents seeking temporary shelter, non-local cars bearing friends and family who came to help, and service trucks of every ilk with out-of-state license plates.

Which brings me to the stories that aren’t so widely noticed, that aren’t reported by the media.

One of these is precisely the unusual, sort of weird and complicated presence of so many out-of-town workers. On the one hand, it’s truly wonderful that they’re here—people gathering from miles away to help. On the other hand, it feels creepy—strangers hovering like vultures around the disaster, looking to profit from tragedy. Clearly, it’s good that they’re here—we need them. But it’s creepy at the same time. This morning we heard an ad on the radio for one such company. It convinced me that I wouldn’t call them if I could help it—it was just too sweet, too soothing … too commercialized rescue. But that’s easy for me to say. I don’t need to seek help, accepting it even if it comes from strangers who feel predatory.

I came to realize another invisible impact of the flood through a story on NPR. It mentioned a man who lived in an area that was directly in the path of the flood. When emergency workers knocked on his door, warning him to leave, he heard the knock but didn’t answer. He was afraid it was ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) coming to take him away because he’s undocumented. 

Another experience in a similar vein: I had volunteered to participate in a “citizenship workshop” this past Saturday, a program where volunteers (like me) help people to apply for citizenship. The event, scheduled for just a week after the flood, was cancelled, and no reason was given. I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because this program draws largely from Latino communities, and those communities were disproportionately affected by the floods. One of the largest Latino communities around here is located in Longmont, the scene of heavy flooding, with parts of town destroyed and other parts cut off by the flood. Other large Latino communities are in areas around Denver, some of which were also severely flooded, and on the eastern plains, directly downstream from these same rivers and streams.   

It was these stories and others like them that made me realize how limited my earlier thinking about the flood had been. Yes, resilience is wonderful, and we need to celebrate it, perhaps especially in the midst of horrors like this. But focusing only on that—and doing so from the perspective of someone who was incredibly fortunate—risks missing something deeper. Something that includes the unseen, often unacknowledged side of disasters of this sort: the people who have little power in the first place and who are faced with huge losses and huge risks that others of us can’t even imagine—that we don’t even think about as we reflect on how lucky we are:

The sense of creepy predatory invasion when we are at our most vulnerable. The fear of deportation and the separation from family, friends, all that life has been. The loss of an opportunity to apply for citizenship. Where do costs like that show up on the ledger of the flood’s damage?

So, more than a week after the flood waters began to recede, I find myself with a very different perspective on the whole event than I had in its immediate aftermath. Still grateful for my own good fortune, but far more conscious of the things I don’t even need to consider in my daily life—things that even color experiences as basic as safety and identity in a natural disaster. That’s a pretty good definition of privilege: not needing to think about things that others must think about constantly.

A lesson I need to learn over and over.

Fire, rain, and the marvel of human resilience

Since it became clear that Boulder—and then Colorado more broadly—would have major flooding, I’ve been wondering what I might be able to say about it in a blog. As I start writing, I’m still not sure … but that’s nothing new.

Thoughts on the flood …

Many of you have undoubtedly seen the slide shows and videos, read the coverage, and heard stories on the radio. Those of you who live around here have probably swapped tales with family, friends, and coworkers. It’s all stunning: streets running like rivers, houses vanishing into the creek, flooded basements, damaged and destroyed cars, shops and their wears flattened, tiny streams spreading over acres of land, sewage backing up through manhole covers and basement drains. People startled from sleep by the sound of boulders crashing into their homes. Neighbors helping neighbors to lay a futile line of sandbags, cross a swollen stream, dig through mud and debris to get to a buried home. Rivers leaving their decades-old (or centuries-old) beds to carve new paths through land that used to be farm or lawn or parking lot. People stranded on hillsides, in shelters, at friends’ houses waiting for rescue by a National Guard helicopter. Promises that roads and bridges will be rebuilt to restore access to isolated towns before the snow falls.

Nothing I can say matches all that. These “reality” TV-esque events, come paradoxically to life, are commentary enough.

But then there are the less-told stories, shared among those of us who—by sheer good fortune—were spared these experiences. Louisville, where we live, is farther east and significantly higher than Boulder—both characteristics that spared us the raging torrents that roared down the mountain canyons west of Boulder and straight into town. Imagine rocky funnels gathering water from torrential rains over miles and miles of already drenched mountain slopes, channeling it all into narrow canyons that empty into the western edge of a college town nestled right smack against hills. Add the rain that’s falling in sheets over the town itself, and you get a hint of Boulder in this epic storm. Climb a significant rise to the east, away from the mountains, to a plateau overlooking the valley that cradles Boulder, and you get a hint of what it’s like in Louisville. It’s like a different world, mostly.

I say mostly, because now, almost a week after the flooding began, I’m beginning to hear stories about damage even up here. I spend a fair amount of time doing my editing work at the local coffee shop, and the chatter there over this past week has followed an interesting trajectory. For the first few days, everyone who came in was talking about how lucky they (we) are to have escaped any (or severe) damage. Then stories started rolling in about the nearby creek that overflowed its banks, closing several roads and causing flooding in some Louisville neighborhoods. With those stories came tales of people helping other people to clean out flooded basements and clear mud from streets and driveways. Then yesterday, I heard about a buddy of one of the regulars who had been evacuated from one of the canyons, but had gone back to collect his stuff. Today for the first time, I heard someone in the coffee shop who had himself backpacked out, leaving his house and most of his stuff behind in a flooded canyon west of Boulder.

But still, for the most part, we regulars at Paul’s are a privileged lot. Mostly, Louisville came out pretty well. And that feels strangely surreal. One person told me he feels a little guilty, and I completely understood what he meant. When I look out my window, I can see that it’s been raining a lot lately. On the day of the worst part of the storm, I looked out my window and saw that it was raining really hard. Period. That’s it. No flooding, no fear, no worry, no damage. Yet I know that just a few miles down the road, all heck broke loose that night.

For several days, following the guidance of emergency workers, my partner and I stayed near home and didn’t venture into Boulder. Then over the weekend, when travel restrictions were loosened, we went in to do a couple of errands and check on my partner’s private practice office. Amazingly, it’s fine, although it’s located quite close to Boulder Creek, which overflowed its banks big time during the height of the flooding.  But then yesterday, when I went into Boulder for a medical appointment, I found that the first floor of the medical center where my doctor’s office is located was flooded. Outside, the streets looked like newly abandoned river beds, full of mud and rocks, with the water’s flow traced along the edges, and the grasses and flowers bowed down, pointing the direction of the flow. It’s all so spotty. We’ve talked to friends who live in Boulder who had mild damage, others who had serious damage, and others who had none. Even in Boulder, high and dry can co-exist in the same block with heavy flooding. It all depends on the whims of the rain, the wind, the currents, the local layout. 

And through it all, after each trip to Boulder, I come home to the comfort of a dry, intact, unchanged home. I look out the window and can see that it rained a lot in the last few days. That’s all.

Today, I ran into a friend at the dentist’s office. Her basement flooded the first night, and she had tales to tell about hurried 1:00 am efforts to save her teenage daughter’s stuff as water filled the basement, followed by a day’s labor cutting up and removing soaked (brand new) carpet. That will be followed by the long slog ahead of tearing out, rebuilding, and refurnishing. “We were lucky,” she said. “We’re all fine.”

Yesterday, I noticed that assorted requests for flood-relief funds have begun to crop up—in the grocery store, in the dry cleaner’s, even on national online sites. Seeing these reminded me of similar pleas during the Four Mile Canyon fire just three years ago. On Labor Day 2010, a major fire broke out in the hills just west of Boulder, ultimately burning thousands of acres of forest and destroying scores of homes. Some of this week’s flooding happened in areas affected by that fire. The fire, like the flood, left many people homeless and many more with seemingly unending cleanup and repair lying ahead. In the fire, too, neighbors showed up to help neighbors. And then, too, people—even people who lost their homes—said, “I was lucky.”

Part of this feeling “lucky” is the sheer relativity of it all: Most folks can count themselves lucky in comparison with what might have happened or what happened to others. I can easily say I’m lucky. All I notice is that it rained really, really hard. My partner can say she’s lucky because, although she had to drive, white-knuckled, through blinding rain and rising waters, her drive was relatively short and she got home safely. My friend at the dentist can say she’s lucky because, although her basement flooded, they’re all safe and the house is generally intact. The guy I heard today at the coffee shop feels lucky because his house is still there, although currently inaccessible and likely damaged, and he’s safe. I read interviews with people who had to be airlifted out, who had lost their homes and everything in them, who said they were lucky because everyone in the family got out alive. “Lucky” is relative. This is a great coping skill, to judge life not in absolute terms but in context.

Now, I realize that some folks don’t feel lucky in any way. Some people died. Some lost loved ones. Some lost treasured possessions that are irreplaceable (for any of a million reasons), some lost a way of life that they cherished and will never be able to rebuild. Some came to the tragedy with too few resources—monetary, physical, emotional—to come away feeling OK about coming away. But many people who could well be feeling overwhelmed, bitter, powerless are instead feeling “lucky.” Why, I ask myself.

There’s something more to it than just feeling OK relative to someone else, some hypothetical worse outcome. After the Four Mile fire, I came across a blog by a woman who lost her house in that fire. She’s a wonderful writer, and I got totally engrossed in her journey back from that tragedy to building a new home (in the same spot) and moving forward in new ways. She challenges the easy conclusion that, in the long run, the fire was a “good” thing, losing her house and rebuilding were a “gift,” etc. Sure, she says, she learned a lot, made new friends, emerged from the tragedy with new strengths and new promise in her life. But that doesn’t make the fire or the loss of her home a “good” thing—and she’s troubled when people frame it this way. Instead, she believes that this interpretation of such tragedy says something else entirely … I’ll leave it to you to consider her thoughts about that. Here’s her blog on the topic.

I love what she had to say about this issue … but what her discussion made me think about today was this: It’s not the fire or the flood that was a good thing. No, the “good thing,” the “blessing” in such moments is that folks realize their ability to tap into this amazing reservoir of resilience that so many people bring to these awful moments, these unbelievably daunting, disheartening, even devastating circumstances. Not everyone does this, I know. But so many people do. Part of this is personal, gut-deep inner resilience whose origins are undoubtedly complicated and varied. And part of it is the upwelling of what the German’s call Gemeinschaftsgefühl—a sort of untranslatable word that means something like “community feeling” or “feeling for humanity.” It’s what we mean when we say that in crisis, everyone pulls together, neighbors take care of neighbors. (Would that it didn’t require a crisis! But then, that personal store of resilience is often hard to find except in crisis, too.)

I don’t want this to slip into some sort of positive thinking pop psychology thing: "Stand strong! Work together! Hang on! Draw on your innate resilience! … and all will be well." Nor do I want to disregard the very real and irredeemable losses that some people have faced.

I just want to pay homage to this marvelous thing that comes alive when we are stretched beyond what we believed we could handle. So far, I have only observed and marveled at this in others. And for that, I realize I am truly lucky. I understand that my turn may come, and if it does, my hope is that I might find such resilience myself. And if not—or if it’s not enough—I hope I have a community willing to bring on that Gemeinschaftsgefühl.