Only when the power goes out does one truly hear and feel the difference modern technology has imprinted upon our senses. First and foremost, obviously, there is the question of light. Without electricity we are at the mercy of natural daylight, and when that goes, wow does it go. In the absence of the moon in the sky, the darkness is deep and impenetrable. Second, and perhaps more powerfully in this day and age of non-stop sensory overload, is the absence of noise. All television and music is instantly silenced – the difference of that alone is startling. More shocking is the absence of all the background fuzz and static – the running of the refrigerator or dishwasher or heating system – things that normally fade into the periphery, suddenly given new prominence in their noticeable absence. Even the barely-there humming of a problematic light or the never-before-noticed whirring of a humidifier make their disappearance felt. It is a profound and reverent silence, and one which I appreciated despite the annoyance of the recent power outage. 

Almost every room or space in which we find ourselves is rarely without all sources of sound. The absence of power illuminates a meditative opportunity, as the only noise eventually becomes your own breathing, or the creaking and crackling of your body, the brush of clothing or the footfalls as you walk from one silent room into another. It was a moment that begged for mindfulness, that practically demanded one stop and take notice of our suspended state. For that, I was grateful, and almost wished we could have half an hour every day of being without the usual distractions and noise. 

I’m strange that way. Most people get immediately and unbearably bothered by such silence and stillness. We are so accustomed to the noise and the stimulation. Embracing this quiet, I seek it out now that it has receded. In the reflection of a window during the recent storm, a group of candle flames looks as if it is emanating from the pine bough. You only hear the sound of a burning candle when it’s extra quiet, and it’s enchanting. 

It’s ok if the garlic dies.

It might be hardy enough.

I have to let the lilacs go.

If they grow back, great, if they don’t…

You know what’s going to survive?

Me.

You.

And the holly.

That’s going to live.

Those roots are intense. 

Like other intriguing double-sworded events, an ice storm can be as beautiful as it is dangerous (and fucking annoying). I captured these photos at about the same time that our interior house temperature fell to what was outside (just kidding, it only felt that way). As the power is not yet on as of the time of this writing, if you don’t hear from me I’m either unable to post or I’ve expired from the cold. Fingers-crossed.