This time it wasn’t funny. We were hit last week by the worst windstorm I’ve ever seen. My little town of Woodinville was blasted. We slept downstairs that night, listening to the cracking and booming. Trees fell onto – and into – numerous houses in my neighborhood. One neighbor’s truck was smashed.
I have to drive over a dozen downed power lines to get home. They’re dead though; there’s no electricity in my neck of the woods. We lost power at around 10:00 Thursday night and it’s still out with no sign of returning. Puget Sound Energy is telling us now that we’ll probably be dark until after Christmas.
The power in my parents’ area was restored last Friday so we’ve slept there the past two nights. It is great to have a warm and hospitable haven. Today I went back to our very-cold abode and built a fire in the fireplace. I just wanted to be there. One of the many things this interruption has revealed to me is how much my house and property are connected to my soul, and vice versa. It is viscerally troubling for me to drive away from my house while it is in a sort of coma. It seems so fragile, vulnerable, lonely… it looks vacant.
So I’m not snickering up my sleeve this time; I’m not making fun of anyone. As strange as it is to say, this is an actual disaster. And I was not very well-prepared for it.