A few weeks ago, we bunkered down with friends bringing hurricane supplies of wine, beer, chocolate, ten gallons of water, and our three animals to wait out Irma. All my Hurricane Katrina PTSD came back, but I worked through it and Irma, by some amazing feat, missed our island, freeing us up to provide support for our sister islands so badly devastated.
14 days later, Maria got us. And Puerto Rico. And Dominica. And Turks and Caicos.
I'm sure there is more to write. I'm sure there are stories in there somewhere.
Mostly what comes out is:
Writing is pointless.
But there is so much material you could share.
What’s the point?
I should go back there ASAP to help rebuild.
I shouldn’t go back, resources are scarce. The last thing they need is another mouth to feed.
Fuck this; I’m not going back. Forget it.
No way in hell am I living through another rebuild.
I need a chai latte now, and a pair of cashmere pajama pants.
I need to go home, to be with our friends.
They are struggling so much.
I miss home.
But I don’t want to be in a devastation conversation for another ten years.
I want to go home.
Fuck this, I'm outta here.
Loss is not easier the second time around.
Right now, I'm sucker punched.
Is this part of the recalibration?
SOS! Send me your wisdom on loss. Pretty please? xoxo
Oh, and a shout out to Ryan McGuire who continues to tell poignant stories (like in the picture on this post) through his wacky and hilarious photos, which he generously offers for free download at https://gratisography.com/