the eye of Irene

On Sunday morning, we drained the bathtub of the water we’d stored and looked out the windows to find nothing out of the ordinary. Puddles had shrunk and dogs were being taken out as usual. Irene’s little eye had watched us so meanly for thousands of miles that when she reached us, she couldn’t see anymore. Around 9am Sunday, her eye passed almost directly over our house, and didn't even wake us. I know my hometown is largely underwater right now, and while I give thanks for no power outage or flooding here, I pray for my friends whose belongings and memories are disintegrating in water.

This was about as dramatic as we saw. Note weird little orange thing on lamp-post outside our window, freshly installed before the hurricane; maybe you have to be here, but it cracks us up.


We cleared the weekend and stayed in our neighborhood, visiting friends at our usual Friday restaurant, testing a new coffee spot, trying a tweaked pizza dough recipe. We accomplished noteworthy feats such as eating warm cookies while watching cheesy movies on our new couch. For once, time to rearrange furniture and congratulate whoever’s idea it was to pivot the table 90 degrees was plentiful. We visited with neighbors and found again that emptying means we can be filled.

There was time for a walk with wellies and raincoats to conjure British walks (we were beside ourselves), and time to clench Walker’s poor arm so I didn’t blow over. I felt like a mannequin smiling down on people below our window as they took pictures of the biggest attraction around, an 8 foot puddle in the middle of our street. The frenetic worry and drama-hype of the build-up slid away as kids splashed in the puddle like a lake.

There was time to stand on our rooftop in a world washed pink as magical baby raindrops sprinkled us.


After nearly-solid tons of rain, there was peace, pure and still.


Whether past or in the storm, may you find fullness of joy today


and may false worry dissolve into true peace.