the miraculous survival of fragile things

Two weeks ago, severe thunderstorms and wind gusts up to 80 mph pummelled Nashville and much of the South. It rained so much, we had flood warnings for a week and a half.

It started on a Wednesday night. Shannon was out of town on business, and Finn and I went out to an early dinner. Beforehand, we watched episode three of Chef’s Table season seven. I’d watched it the week before, and been so fascinated by Chef Angel Leon’s mission to use the ocean sustainably by creating dishes with things like plankton (responsible for up to 80% of our planet’s oxygen), delectable charcuterie made from fish fisherman discard, and a type of cereal from a wheat-like plant that grows on the oceans’ floors, with more protein than rice, and tons of amino acids. Aponiente, Leon’s high-end restaurant, in Spain, has three Michelin stars, yet his greatest passion is to spread awareness about how the ocean’s bounty could feed the impoverished and hungry. Finn has gotten really into fishing lately, so I wanted him to see it before we went out for sushi. Afterwards, he drove us across town. The winds were already whipping, and the sky was an ominous grey-pink. It’s easy to brush off storm warnings in Tennessee after you’ve lived through many false alarms, though we’ve also had more than our share of flooding and tornado damage. at dinner, we had fun trying adventurous dishes, and by the time we left, the rain had started. Still, when we went to bed, I wasn’t too worried. But I made sure I had a flashlight and extra phone charger by my bed just in case.

Around 2:30 in the morning, my phone blared loudly with a tornado warning. Then the sirens started outside. I ran up to Finn’s room and told him we needed to go to my closet. He sat up halfway, blinked, and said, “No.” I asked him if he heard the sirens outside, and that pulled him from his haze. We took our two dogs and cat into the large closet I share with Shannon. Then we pulled down blankets and pillows and laid on the floor to wait it out. The animals were nervous, and curled up on our feet—our cat, Flurry, settled on top of my head. Every time we thought the storms had passed, another round came behind it, with sirens blaring. We were in the closet until almost 4 a.m., and even after that, the sever thunderstorm warnings kept coming. Metro schools were closed on Thursday, and much of nearby Green Hills was flooded. The river near my parents’ house in Franklin was the highest I’ve ever seen it. And still, it rained.

Shannon got home late Thursday night. I couldn’t believe his flight from the west coast wasn’t cancelled due to the continuing storms. By Saturday, we had storm fatigue, and decided to go see a movie. When we left our house, it was cloudy and a little drizzly. By the time we reached The Belcourt Theater, it was raining sideways and the sirens started again. It’s a sturdy building we said. A good place to be. We got lucky and the storms passed over us, but again, damaged other parts of Tennessee. That’s the thing with storms—if they aren’t hitting you directly, you know someone else is getting the brunt of it. The relief is always tinged with guilt and concern. I rode the rollercoaster of adrenaline and fatigue for four days, and was completely drained. And then on Monday morning I found the peonies budding in our yard.

They made it through all the storms, not only from the week, but throughout the entire year. These gorgeous, delicate flowers that bloom so briefly, but so far, are still surviving our erratic temperatures and climate disasters. Their fortitude gives me hope. They inspire me to find new ways to adapt and grow through difficult things, like the plankton carpeting our seas and giving us breath each day. It’s devastating to watch our planet and fellow humans suffer. It’s imperative that we learn new ways to listen, watch, and learn from it.

Last week, Shannon and I went to New Orleans. It was my first time in the city, and I was overwhelmed by the poverty, smells, and remaining damage from Katrina and other kinds of storms. Yet the wealth of history and culture there is undeniable. On a walking tour, I learned about the New Orleans fire in 1788 that destroyed 856 of 1,100 structures. And yet—in Audubon Park, the Tree of Life, planted around 1740 remains.

There’s no point in asking why some things survive when others don’t. I find it much more important to look at resilience and fortitude—fortunes and blessings with wonder and hope; to do what I can to live with an open-handed awareness of impermanence. This of course, is impossible to do every moment of the day because I want to cling to what I love. But I believe it’s the truth of our world, and the way our lives naturally play out. Nothing lasts forever. We have today, we have this minute. We didn’t party in New Orleans. We’ve lived too much life to find hangovers appealing. But I did put on a bright yellow dress, because after the storms, I had a new appreciation for the sun.