summer storm

Also published in The Greenwich Sentinel

I love a good summer storm. At the end of a hot and humid day, the scattered clouds start to thicken and darken, and the still air begins to move gently at first, and then with a little more force. From our back porch, we can often watch the shift in light and feel the change in the air. Sometimes the assault is quick, and sometimes it lingers, tearing loose limbs from the trees, bringing heavy rains that pool on the driveway and weigh down the season’s blooms. Lightning strikes in the distance followed by thunderous booms. I love to go to sleep with the world still charging outside and wake up to the calm, the rising sun, and the clock radio flickering on the bedside table. 

We are in the midst of a storm this summer, and yet the freshness that comes with the wash of light seems so far away. The branches strewn in the backyard are begging to be picked up. We have been at this a while; we have held the cup half full, invested in bright-colored masks, and celebrated the silver linings. 

In March, when we first moved home, I remember thinking that, come summer, all will be well. We made summer plans. And yet, here it is July, and the pandemic continues to rage throughout our country. Now, when I look towards the fall, I do so with questions. I want answers.

I am a planner. I start my day with one of these questions: 

What’s the plan? What’s your plan? What’s our plan this weekend? Do you have a plan? Do you want me to make a plan?

You get the picture. I find safety in a secure plan; it allows me to anticipate, it makes me feel organized, I know what and who to expect, and it gives me a sense of control. I do not do spontaneity well.

But today when I look forward, I do so with trepidation. Will the kids be back in school, in pods, in masks, sitting six feet away from each other? Will we be able to return to our place of work? Visit our parents in assisted living without putting them at risk? Dine inside when the air gets cool? Have a beer at a bar? Travel to another country for pleasure? Will we wait anxiously for a new outbreak, like a teenager scrutinizing his or her skin? 

And the inability to plan for me is unsettling. And yet, when I look back on my life, I recognize that many of my plans were never realized. I did not become a rock star with my best friend (my older sister was going to be our driver). I did not go to college in New Haven. I did not play professional tennis. I did not marry my first crush. I did not move to San Francisco. I had planned for each accordingly, but I actually had little control over the outcome. The truth is I didn’t sing well. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough. And I never left my hometown because I fell in love. 

So, this fall, we are going to do things differently; maybe that is the one certainty. It may be hard to plan. We may have little control over the outcome, but maybe that isn’t so different after all. 

There is this wonderful piece that someone sent to me when we were caring for our sick son. It’s called Welcome to Holland and it is brilliant; I wish I had written it. The words were perfect for that time in my life, but also appropriate for the way I am feeling right now. I won’t include it in its entirety here, but if you get the chance, Google it. In Welcome to Holland, the author, Emily Perl Kingsley, speaks of a journey, an amazing trip she has planned to Italy. She has packed for Italy. She is excited about pasta and gelato. She has learned some Italian phrases. But when her plane lands, the flight attendant announces, “Welcome to Holland. “

Holland isn’t bad, it’s just not what she had planned for. And it can be painful, the loss of a dream, but Kingsley says, “if you spend your whole time mourning the fact that you are not in Italy, you will miss the wonderful things about Holland.”

Kingsley uses the analogy to help us understand what it’s like to raise a child with special needs, but as I look into the fall - the fall I want, and the fall I want to plan for - I realize that this, too, is a “Welcome to Holland” moment.

I am married to a pilot and a sailor and because of his passions and his propensity to like to anticipate, his phone is equipped with every conceivable weather app. And yet, not often, but on occasion, we have been caught off guard. It has hailed boulders when the apps indicated sun, and it has been sunny when the apps predicted precipitation. We have gone on vacation, only to be evacuated a few days later due to a hurricane. Forecasts, like best-laid plans, can be wrong.

Eventually, the storm will subside, though it may not be this fall and it may not even be this winter. We may coast in the eye for a while, only to have gale-force winds return before we can assess the damage and clear the debris. We have encountered storms before and know that the control we seek is often out of our reach and yet, we endured. And we will again. We will ride it out in the warmth of our loved ones huddled beneath a blanket or, better yet, we will learn that:

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning how to dance in the rain.” (Vivian Greene)