“A well man at sea has little sympathy with one who is sea-sick; he is too apt to be conscious of a comparison favorable to his own manhood.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
Seven Deadly Zins
Lee fixed an elaborate, delicious dinner last night, and my plate’s fare was more than I could finish. The Harrisons broke bread with us, too, and then left for a Norton Center performance. They’re still based at a motel, so that tells me Gose Pike remains off the grid. Access to David’s laptop provided an opportunity for us to glance at our growing accumulation of email. I could merely glance at Caitlan’s request that I design the invitation for her year-end wedding. And after that, the big news: Bruce called to let us know our power was back on—at last. We relaxed with Appaloosa for an encore viewing and then gratefully returned to a gradually warming house.
When the ordeal is over, a strange kind of pride or sense of self-congratulation comes alarmingly easy. While others foundered, panicked, or were just plain clueless, if one was in a position to rely on prior judgments and preparations, there can be a satisfaction that is not entirely admirable, because it too easily creates a comforting detachment from those who are still suffering, from those who are still counting the days. Somewhere in the heart is a motivation to move beyond protecting immediate family to a more general community outreach, but the longed-for end to personal crisis brings too strong a desire for the return to ordinary living.
And how smooth it can be to slip into that “new era of normalcy” without also seeing the experience as a call to greater preparedness. True, there seems to be an ongoing series of natural disasters distributed here and there, and this could be seen simply as “our turn” and to say, “All’s well that ends well.” But is it more astute to count blessings without losing a sense of guarded optimism, keeping one eye on the potential for more of the same or worse? Or perhaps that’s the unbroken “crashologist” within—my inner “doom-and-gloom-er” who needs to keep his powder dry and the gas tank on F.