November 2012. In our loft in lower Manhattan last weekend, we listened to the forecasts of impending disaster as the huge and snarly Hurricane Sandy moved in our direction. The scary news sent Mary Ann to the stores for batteries, bottled water, peanut butter, crackers, and other odds and ends which we would need in case the electricity went out. Meanwhile, Fred filled the bathtub and three large plastic containers with water to use to flush the toilets, located all the flashlights and candles, and watered the plants so they could safely weather the storm inside with us.
We were worried that our large south-facing windows might not hold in the face of 75 mph punches. We'd been in a Category I hurricane in Puerto Rico and the wind pushed water in through the sides of the windows and doors. But there was nothing we could do about our windows except hope for the best.
The first sign of Sandy's presence in New York City from our perspective ten flights up from the street was the howling of the wind. Mary Ann posted on Facebook: "This storm sounds like a chorus of whining/sick/frightened animals. The wind is carrying messages for us." Over the next days, we returned often to that question, "What is the Earth telling us?"
When the windows barely rattled and we could see only a little rain on the rooftop puddles across the street, we began to think that we had missed the brunt of the storm. And indeed we had. It was only days later that we saw images of what Sandy had done to our neighbors up and down the Eastern seaboard, how homes and apartments and boardwalks and beaches had been pulverized by the winds and flooded by the storm surge.
Then at 8:20 pm Monday night, the lights went out and the computers' backup battery came on, giving us time to shut all our systems down safely. So began a new way of life, without access to the Internet, our website, Facebook, or Twitter. Our resources now became a battery-powered radio, a cell phone we hesitated to use because there was no way to recharge it, and our "hurricane" supplies. Fortunately we still had gas so we could cook our food. And for a few hours at least we had running water from the tower on the roof, but that ended soon enough with no electricity to run the pump getting water from the street.
Every little inconvenience became a reminder. With each toilet flush using our limited supply of water, we thought of the seriousness of the waste management problem on a national and global scale and the need to find new ways to deal with human, industrial, and technological waste.
As we drank our bottled water and washed a few dishes, we recalled images of people in disaster and war zones lining up to get water from trucks or carrying water long distances to refugee camps. We lamented the fact that there are places in the world where people are now being charged for the water they need to survive.
The refrigerator and freezer stayed cold for 48 hours, but we felt sad as we knew some things stored there were going bad and would not fulfill what we call their "purpose in life." These gifts of God to us deserved a better fate than the garbage pail.
Our five cats seemed oblivious to our new situation as they went about their regular routines. We both wished we were able to move as freely in the dark as they do. We repeatedly bowed in spirit to our trusty flashlights which lit the way through the loft at night. The candles made our eating into holy rituals and our cleaning up in the kitchen into divine gestures.
Fred, a creature of habit, made the best of a bad situation by reading from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. When the darkness descended on the loft, he savored music on his battery-powered CD player. What a pleasure to hear favorites from the past — songs by Bob Seger and Linda Ronstadt, and, of course, New Jersey legends Bruce Springsteen and Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes. Best of all was listening to devotional CDs with chanting, kirtan, and choral selections. Our spirits were lifted by these holy experiences!
Mary Ann, meanwhile, tried to read by candlelight. She found herself thinking about her farmer ancestors sitting around fireplaces in the evening. We assume so many things, including that we can shape our days as we wish, without having to pay all that much attention to the rhythms of light and dark.
By Thursday, it was time to make some changes. With two Spirituality & Practice e-courses going and emails piling up no doubt, plus family and friends to be reassured, Mary Ann decided to move up to our colleague Joy Carol's house in uptown Manhattan. She had electricity and a stable Internet connection. She also had a car to pick us up, since the subways and buses, our usual way of getting around town, were not running.
This was when we encountered an unexpected challenge. The stairs in our building were pitch black! Going down ten flights with a laptop, books, and overnight supplies with only flashlights was difficult — another reminder of what a blessing it is to have light in an emergency.
Fred came along, too, for a chance to shower and have a good breakfast. Then, picking up a semblance of normal life, we went to an advanced screening of Steven Spielberg's latest movie Lincoln. The scenes of Civil War carnage, reminders of the suffering of all times, were humbling.
Fred returned to the darkness, negotiating those dark stairs again, and then had to deal with the cold. Heat in our building, it turns out, is dependent upon electricity. After a night dressed in many layers, he was ready to go down the stairs again for a screening of Hitchcock on Friday. There's a scene in the film of the audiences at the first screening of Psycho. Horror films have been popular through the years because they provide us a safe place to experience the psychological rush of danger. We enjoyed the film, but we didn't need the rush. After days without access to television or Internet, we had just begun seeing the pictures of the horrors wrought by Sandy.
Then on Friday evening, electrical power came back to southern Manhattan. Mary Ann returned home. The elevator worked. The water flowed. The toilets flushed. And the computers booted up without a hitch. We are so grateful for all these gifts!
Spiritual Lessons of Living in the Dark
What spiritual lessons are we taking away from our four days and nights in the dark?
First and foremost, we realized how thoughtless and thankless we have been in our relations to the many things in our daily lives. We want to express our gratitude to all the electric appliances in our loft — the lamps, refrigerator, freezer, microwave, toaster, television, computers, sound system, and all the little gadgets as well. We want to thank all the battery-powered devices that helped us through these days and kept us connected with others.
"Even the common articles, made for daily use become endowed with beauty when they are loved," the ancient seer Soetsu Yanagi observed. After our experience in the dark, we vow to be more sensitive, loving, and caring toward all the beautiful electric and electronic things we take for granted.
Things are blessed. Perhaps we'll have a party for them. Clean them up, give out "Exceptional Service Awards," put them in a place of honor.
We also learned that we can reframe uncomfortable experiences. When we don't have the conveniences we are used to, we can use our energy in other ways. We can turn to devotional practices such as prayer, chanting, singing, or reading. Downtime can be transformed into a sacred time of growth. We also discovered during our experience in the dark a greater appreciation of silence that gives birth to closer intimacy with God.
In our isolation during the blackout, we actually felt closer to others who truly suffered with the death of loved ones; flooding of their homes; damage to their property of trees, plants, and possessions; separation from pets; and evacuation to shelters. Even when we couldn't see pictures of what was happening, we knew of suffering in our immediate area. We looked out the windows at blocks of darkness and remembered the homeless on our streets, lost animals, and uprooted trees. "May all beings be safe" became our prayer. The spiritual practice of empathy comes to the fore when we ourselves undergo shocks, surprises, and changes to our daily regimens.
Finally, living in the dark opened our hearts and minds to working with the light. We became conscious of the ways in which our cellular bodies are dependent on environmental light. There were certain times when sitting by the windows, we felt ourselves absorbing the rays of the sun and using it as fuel for our courage.
Sufi teacher Hazrat Inayat Khan tells us that we can send out this radiant light to others in a mystical process. He wrote: "May you find the path that leads you toward the purpose of your life: illumination."
After living in the dark, we have a new appreciation of ourselves as beings of the light who are called to bring illumination to others. Jamal Rahman in The Fragrance of Faith sums it all up for us:
"Practice sending light from your heart to the hearts of every soul you meet and also, to the spirit of whatever you come into contact with: animals, trees, plants, flowers water, stones, etc. This awakens and expands the Light in you."
