On Irene, Agnosticism and Miracles
I wake up to a morning that can only be called “surreally beautiful.”
The weather is cool, autumnal, and breezy. The sun comes down all slanted through the trees. Our yard is dappled. Overhead, the leaves are yellow-green. The water in our creek rushes by, overflowing its banks.
Besides the mud, and the algae that drips from my neighbor’s swing set, that’s the only sign that yesterday was very, very different.
Yesterday, I woke up to the sound of branches cracking in the distance. The power went out, then on again. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t because of the rain rattling the windows.
My husband and I got coffee, then watched as the creek in our backyard began to swallow up the grass.
“It won’t reach us,” we said. “This house is two hundred years old. Surely it’s withstood worse.”
But as the water climbed, doubt set in. It covered the fire circle, the pile of cut wood that the landlord had left at the lawn’s edge. The swing set. One set of roots after another.
We made nervous jokes, but also began to prepare. Dressing hastily. Setting aside clothes and important documents and chargers for our electronics. Packing cans of food for the cat, who had wedged himself beneath the sink and refused to come out.
I felt like a character in a short story–Aimee Bender or maybe Genevieve Valentine. Victimized by some personal crisis, and then the floods begin, rushing in through the cracks in the windows and underneath the doors. I could practically see it happening. My husband pointed to a tree at the edge of the yard, the place where the rise of the lawn stops and our driveway begins.
“If it reaches that tree, we’ll go.”
We fretted. We watched, owl-eyed. We refreshed the radar maps over and over again. And then something happened: the storm shifted east. The rain slowed to a drizzle. Just as it began to climb the final hill, swallowing up the solar lights on our stone path, the storm stopped.
We wandered out. So did our neighbors, who we’d only met briefly before. Surreal, surreal, surreal, I said. They nodded. There wasn’t much to do after that–sit inside? Worry? No. We dragged our porch chairs and grill out from where we’d stowed them away from the winds. We had a party, right above the scary, strange river that rushed below. One of our neighbors even tried to float a fire on the water, like some kind of Viking funeral for Irene. It’s funny what alcohol and adrenaline will do to you.
As I watched the cardboard topple, and the light go out, I thought, “Damn, I’m lucky.”
That’s what keeps running through my head today. Probability. Luck. Miracles.
There’s a question that comes up on ask.metafilter.com again and again. What role can wonder play in the life of an atheist or agnostic? I don’t talk about religion often in my blog. I don’t know why–I guess I’m afraid of offending someone. But if you didn’t know, despite a mixed religious background, I’m a strong agnostic. I believe that deities are unknowable to meager men and women. I do believe in science, though–physics and astronomy and biology and math.
And when something like this happens, when I hear about storms destroying towns not twenty five miles away, when I hear about my landlord’s other apartments all flooded, and the property inside destroyed, I think about miraculous probability.
I think about how unlikely it was that the Earth would have formed the right distance from the sun for life to develop, and, more, that the painstakingly slow machinations of evolution would have resulted in animal life, mammalian life, man. I think about how long we existed before we developed written language. I think about the fact that I exist in an era when I can write these words to you. I think about the fact that just the right pieces of DNA were passed on from my parents at just the right time to produce me. I think about all of the accidents that could have befallen me before I could experience this–a practically apocalyptic barbecue, a cooling rain, food, and new friends, and my husband. I think about my life, and how it’s pretty good lately. We live in a place that makes me happy. I have work that makes me feel challenged. I am loved by friends and family. I am in love. I have books and a cat and a warm bed.
And here, I could go off on a determinist tangent, but I won’t. I’ll only say this: that I think of all the things that I believed could have happened as the water climbed through my yard, as I watched, white knuckled, as trees toppled on the other side of the creek, and I thought of slim chances, of odds, of probability. I thought of the chance that our house would be touched or our things–that we’d try to ford a road, and get stuck, or hurt. I felt afraid.
But here, safe, warm, looking out at the world where the water’s drained away and even our yard is largely untouched?
I feel a sense of quiet awe come over me. I feel that the universe is unpredictable and unfeeling and huge, so huge. I feel all of the things that could have come to pass, but didn’t. And I feel very, very lucky.
Phoebe
Phoebe is a 20-something writer who lives in New York State with her husband and cat. She is a dork, not a geek or a nerd.
Her debut novel, Starglass, will be released from Simon and Schuster Books for Young Readers in Summer 2013.
22 comments
Amazing. Love this post, and I'm glad you got through unscathed.
Thanks so much, Cristine. I’m very glad, too.
glad you and yours are safe and well.
Thanks, Kurt.
Beautifully written! Thanks.
Thank you, Lesli.
I found your post through Nova Rem Suma. Nice article, Phoebe.
I'm hearing a lot of buzz about Irene being overhyped, but I think this is because the major cities weren't hit as hard as other areas. The residents of Vermont are suffering terribly right now. They say it is the worst flooding there in a century. More than 250 roads are washed out, historic covered bridges have been washed away, main streets are still under water, and there are massive power outages.
Since I live in New Hampshire, I had similar thoughts to you. Originally, Irene was supposed to strike us directly, but instead it veered west and Vermont bore the brunt of the storm. The residents of New Hampshire feel very fortunate today.
I'm glad you made it through the storm. Thanks for this thoughtful article. There are too few blog posts out there about belief and doubt. I'm glad Nova suggested I check out your work.
All the best,
Michelle Aldredge http://www.gwarlingo.com
I was talking to some family about the storm, and how your location (by even a few blocks) seemed to really transform your perceptions of it. It's one of those situations where you're really underwhelmed by an event or unfortunately directly affected–and probably pretty severely. That's weather for you, I suppose.
Glad to hear you & yours are all safe, too. Thanks for the comment.
Great post, I feared for a minute there you were going to have a euphoric moment and thank God for looking over you.
Nah, not really my style.
Beautiful post, Phoebe. We lived/floated through Isabel a couple years ago, and I know exactly what you mean by "Surreal, surreal, surreal," – I mean, river/bay/ocean? Not Invited! And yet it keeps coming, very slowly. hmm. Sounds rather like a story prompt now…
Glad you all are safe and were able to address the situation with Fire!
It DOES sound like a story prompt! Hmm . . .
And thanks, Fran.
You have amazing shoes (as everyone else has already covered your beautiful writing, and the shoes were the first thing I noticed).
Also, it reminds me of the day after the last hurricane we had here in Houston. So many branches had fallen in our backyard (a gravel-covered dead area we run into the ground with our cars) that it looked like a jungle, as though we'd been transported to a completely different place.
Isn't it funny how nature can change the landscape like that? Reminds you of how impermanent it all is.
Ha, thanks. They're new, and I totally love them.
Good to hear you guys came out ok.
Thanks, Inha.
I love this post – glad you are safe and well.
That must have been one unnerving experience… I know, it might sound a little awkward, because for you the danger of losing your house to the flood was very real, but I really loved how you captured that eerie atmosphere of waiting. It was haunting, emotional and utterly beautiful.
And many thanks for linking me to Genevieve Valentine's story! I haven't heard of that author before, but that piece you linked was magical realism/urban fantasy horror at its finest. It really humbled me – the knowledge that someone can take such a simple idea and spin it into a capturing tale. I can't believe stuff like "Ponies" can get a Nebula award and Ms. Valentine doesn't even have her own Wikipedia entry!
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