My friend Jon Fisher sent this picture of the house in Maplewood earlier today. Although there are pieces of us still there, they are mostly memories, not our physical lives. The house survived the winds - less can be said about the tree across the road and the power line which lies dangerously crippled from the fierce wind howling.
I am in Boulder. It is strange watching reports of life's most intense chapters from afar. Watching the buildup on a computer screen and reading friend's posts online. Watching the control you think you have over your security becoming swirling colors on a map and warnings delivered from strangers. Watching on a beautiful day the prognosis becoming so bleak. Watching homes saddle up to become bunkers. Seeing the work that takes us away from our families everyday with such urgency suddenly close up shop, bringing my neighbors and friends together with the wind and the silence.
We take turns sending notes of comfort from afar. This time I was not there. Only watching people on an embarrassingly bad weather.com set warning about impending doom, then trying to prove how right they were ( and they were too right this time). Listening to reports on the radio and trying to imagine what couldn't be described. Studying pictures that didn't begin to tell me what I was desperate for. Yet it was all so upsetting. Through the night I listened to the wind from the Jersey shore whip in my ears from the radio streaming on my phone. In the morning I rushed to see the pictures and imagine everything.
We are living days that are extraordinary - yet they remind me of how much they are like every other day. Where there are millions of stories of us living lives that are precious and remarkable and inspired. Lives that that tell our collective story in minutes to a friend sitting next to us on the train, to the person we get coffee from everyday, to our children. My work is about trying to show what makes us all so special. Watching how people have coped through this crisis, even from afar - gives me so much hope.
My heart breaks for all the destruction and pain - yet, especially in New York, I see all the love that seeps out of the cities wounds, in the quiet with no power and a crippled infrastructure, allowing us, even for a moment to appreciate how much we have.
Months of obsession with the campaign was killing me. It was soulless and mean. Then it all got pushed aside by the wrath of nature and power of human resilience.
My son Jackson was 5 yesterday. As we were driving up the mountain to celebrate at lunch, he called his friend Theo in Maplewood. There was no answer. He left a voicemail.
"Theo, I hope you are okay in the storm. I hope it will be over soon and nothing got broken. Love, Jackson."