Disconnected

I lay awake with the TV on listening to the thunder rock and roll the heavens. Rain beat upon the roof and slapped the patio as if it were venting anger that had been festering for years. Lightning split the dark sky and flashed into the room in short violent pulses. I laid there listening to the storm attempting to block out the early morning infomercial that competed for my attention. Suddenly the TV clicked off. A penetrating blackness settled over the room as the glow from the nightlight in the hall and the TV’s last pixel expired. A pall seemed to flutter off the ceiling and envelope me in darkness. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face.

I sat up waiting anxiously for the electricity to flick back on. I started to count the seconds wondering when this sudden imposition would cease. My eyes searched the room for familiar objects. When I could discern none in the oppressive blackness an unsettled feeling rippled through me and sparked my vivid imagination. I felt around the nightstand for the flashlight I had stashed and let the beam of light sweep across the room. I felt like a five year old checking for boogey men that might have crept in my room just as the light had seeped out moments ago. I laughed at myself – sort of – reminding myself I was nearly ten times five years-old and reached for my book on that very same bedside table. I propped my flashlight on my pillow, threw the blanket over my head for warmth and safety, and started to read. How many times in my youth had I done this very thing after everyone else had gone to sleep? I smiled to myself again and settled into the rhythm of the story in my tent under the covers. I read until drowsy and slipped into a welcomed sleep that had evaded me hours earlier.

Later that morning, my eyes opened and on autopilot searched for the familiar red glow of numbers announcing the time of day. There were no numbers. The blackout persisted. The low light of a cloudy morning had lifted the pitch blackness of the night before but something unfamiliar had pervaded my space. I sat and listened. I listened some more. With a sigh I got out of bed to find my watch in the barely lit room to see how long I’d slept. 7 AM. Hmmm…I’d overslept. I walked around the chilly house. That unfamiliar thing followed me. I stood in my sitting room and gazed upon the back yard scrubbed fresh and clean from the storm’s powerwashing. I walked through the kitchen and down the hall to my office. I peered into the room where I had worked and stressed these last few months over a backlog of work that wracked my nerves and raised my blood pressure. But the room was now different somehow. Slowly a knowingness began. This was peace. An all encompassing quiet that seems to hum gently in your ears. All our electronics were off. Our PCs were not whirring. There was no radio or TV blaring bad news and traffic jams. The phone couldn’t ring. My email wasn’t pulling me to see who or what had contacted me since I signed off last evening. I felt no compulsion to rush to work. There was no guilt about spending my first hours of the days taking care of my body and soul. No one could get to me unless they knocked on my door. I had been given the gift of a snow day though not a snowflake had fallen. Somehow the room was prettier. I noticed it seemed for the first time in a very long while how lovingly I had decorated this space. A freedom settled in my bones and I thought of the things I could do that required no electricity.

I backed out of my office and padded through the kitchen to the laundry room. There I filled my watering can and watched the water flow from the faucet. How had something so mundane become so zen? I walked through each room and watered my plants with the reverence of a monk. I turned them in their pots so that the branches that had bent toward the sun could straighten and stretch the other way. I touched the leaves appreciating their color and texture. I noticed how the morning sun bathed each room in soft light. There was no harshness here. Nothing loud or offensive. Nothing to jar the senses or over-stimulate the brain. No stress. No bother. Just being. 

I returned to my sitting room and did just that…sat. I let the silence hum through me. How very blissful this was. Like coming home after a long time away. It had taken a blackout to return me to peace. In my flurry of daily work and activity I had lost the very thing that sustains me. Before I felt proud that I had had the foresight to sacrifice my morning take-care-of-me routine for extra hours of work. I thought I could get ahead by doing more. But my Type-A existence these last few months had left me feeling like I’d gotten absolutely nowhere. In my haste to be connected to the world each day and do and do more, I disconnected myself from the wellspring of life…peace, solitude, gratitude, beingness, nothingness. 

Suddenly the lights flicked back on. I heard my PC start to boot and the cordless phone rung briefly to announce it was beginning to charge once more. The world was threatening to invade my space. But with a smile, I continued to sit in peace, solitude, gratitude, beingness, nothingness. I took a deep breath and continued to sit appreciating the silent hum within me. Then the still small voice whispered in my ear, “You have the power to turn the world on and off. Disconnect to connect.” I took another deep breath and wrapped the silence around me for a few moments more.