Dear Joaquin

It’s been three years but I still think of you.

I remember you before, I remember you during, and I remember you after.

You don’t invade my dreams like you used to, robbing me of sleep each time I tried to close my eyes. You don’t make me nauseous like you did when I first met you. You don’t make me sob, but you can still make me cry.

I will never forget you, and I don’t want to forget you. But for far too long, you ran my life. You defined my fears and insecurities, my paranoia and my heartache. You were the catalyst to so many other terrible experiences, but in you I’ve also found a beacon of strength.

You destroyed everything in your path, and you threatened to destroy me. I am not impenetrable. But I am resilient, don’t you see?

As the homes were rebuilt, so did I rebuild the very bones that you had rattled for 36 hours straight and countless days and nights after.

As I sat drying and tossing and searching for the things you tried to take from me, I remembered that you took so much more from so many who had less.

As I listened to others share their stories, I realized I wasn’t alone, and together we rose from your ruins.

It’s been three years and I still think of you, but it’s different now. Good different.

RIP Hurricane Joaquin. You helped shape the woman I am today, and for that, I’m forever grateful.

 

Oct 14, 2015 (2 weeks later):

Hurricane Joaquin was terrifying in its before, during, and after. I am safe but my emotions are raw; the island is devastated. I have choked back vomit and tears more times than I can tally. You never expect when you take off on a dream to travel the world that the place you start to call your home can be ravaged so severely, so unforgivingly by Mother Nature. You never expect that you will get caught up 20 miles from the eye of a disaster that will live in history and meteorology as one of the most unexpected, unpredictable, perfect storms to date. You never expect to face so much fear and sadness, to flee your house, to hear survival stories of neighbors breaking through rooftops, clinging to trees, Duct taping identification to their bodies, crouching in a closet with two large dogs for 36 hours straight. Two days of 130, 145 mph winds–gusts clocked at 200. Two days of relentless storm surges. And an apocalyptic aftermath that leaves you empty.

I am writing this at a temporary communication tower with a crawling internet speed as the main tower was taken out by the storm, along with over 600 telephone poles in a 40-mile stretch. It took 1 hr to drive to it. Electricity is just being restored to parts of the island.

In my transient 6 months on Long Island, Bahamas, I’ve learned that what makes this place paradise more than its beautiful landscapes is its beautiful people. This is a resilient community. I don’t know how and I don’t know when but somehow, sometime, life will go back to normal.

If you would like to help, please, please do so. People have lost everything, including their source of income to rebuild. Contact SEACOR in Ft. Lauderdale to send food, water, building supplies, clothing, bedding, feminine hygiene products, and infant needs. Contact NEMA in Nassau, Bahamas for monetary donations. Private planes can transport supplies to the Stella Maris airport which has opened up here on Long Island.

Whether you pray, meditate, or simply ponder, please keep this island at the forefront of your mind now and in the indefinite future.

Oct 21, 2015 (3 weeks later): 

In the wake of Hurricane Joaquin, the support I’ve received from family and friends in every pocket of the globe has been humbling. I am a firm believer that no friendship is ever too small. In times like these, we lean on each other. I’m doing a lot of leaning. Please, people, if you ever need help, consider it a moment of strength, not weakness, when you choose to lean on someone. We are all we’ve got.