Life Interrupted
On Monday, April 28, we had a widespread electric outage across the Iberian peninsula and several European countries. No electricity. No internet. No phone service. No cooking if you had an electric stove, which most of us have. You didn't want to open the refrigerator lest your food spoil (faster).
The feeling of being vulnerable and isolated was palpable. No one knew what had happened nor how long this would last. Lines of communication were cut. Right before I lost all communication, I managed to text my friends nearby and text my son in the USA, telling him what had occurred and sharing that it was unlikely I could communicate with him beyond this message and asking him to watch the news for updates. Just as the message left my phone, all communication was cut.
Life interrupted.
There is no work to do. You have no water if you have a water pump dependent on electricity. You don't drive because the traffic lights are out, and drivers are panicked. My car is now charging my phone, and I am getting news as I sit in the driveway with the engine running.
I think of my friend Leslie who lives on a farm outside of Lagos. This badass woman can easily live off her land. Her garden blooms with berries, tomatoes, and assorted vegetables. She has an outdoor kitchen and grill. She is a vegetarian, so there's no need to refrigerate meat. If this lasts longer than a few days, Leslie will be fine while the rest of us empty our refrigerators and grill what we can while the rest spoils—no trekking to the supermarket or restaurant for food. Everything is closed.
There is no one to talk to (unless you walk to your neighbor's house like I did), no Spotify music, no audiobook or podcast to listen to, no television to watch, no news, no NOISE.
That sense of vulnerability transforms into curiosity for me. My (our) dependence on technology is undeniable. And it's a bit frightening. To see how integrally it is woven into our day-to-day when it is removed gives me pause.
In a few short hours, anxiety turns into curiosity and then gratitude. It is so QUIET!
It is a beautiful, warm, and sunny day. Without anything to do, I relish sitting in the sun, reading a manuscript I promised to blurb, and working on a few poems and essays I plan to submit soon. These things I had said I would get to "in time" are front of mind now.
Later, I walk through the fields nearby with my dog, Sophie. Instead of hearing cars and construction sounds, I listen to birds and a few barking dogs. I return just as the sun sets and pull out my laptop to write this by candlelight. My cottage looks so inviting, glowing with this subtle lighting, inviting me to transition from the day's chores (none today) to slowing my pace as I prepare for sleep.
I have no idea if the electricity will be on when I awaken tomorrow or if this outage is a multi-day event. Sitting here by candlelight, I am not concerned, simply relishing this silence in the heavenly glow of candles scattered about.
Tomorrow, I'll worry about the food spoiling, the appointments missed, and the work left undone.
Tonight, I'll listen to the heartbeat of the night as I fall asleep.
