Gulfport RePost- Day Five: I am singing in the rain

12/21

the rain was still beautiful when i woke up this morning to make pancakes for the group. and it was still beautiful as it turned into knee-deep flooding in New Orleans and ruined our plans for the day. we piled into our vans and drove up and down the beach before heading back to the house for lunch and an afternoon of hanging out instead.

buddhism loves its water metaphors, maybe second only to those about fire. a river will look the same at any two given moments, but the water in it is different, constantly changing. water is a lesson about constancy and impermanence. as we drove along the coast i was struck most deeply by the loss of history on each side of the highway. on one side, the boardwalk has been completely destroyed, leaving only lonely posts and tiny landings every couple of yards. on the other, huge estates and gorgeous homes reduced to rubble. we passed a graveyard and a memorial park. we passed the last house of Jefferson Davis. irreplaceable things with decades and generations of stories. no matter how much hard work and money is poured into rebuilding, these things will never be the same, lost to the winds and the water.

and we took a drive to the roof where we'd been working one last time. the other team (from Tennessee) had finished the last couple hours of work, and it looked amazing. and, in the balmy Mississippi downpour, it wasn't leaking a drop.

it's easy to get overwhelmed when you focus on all the things that have been lost. here on the gulf coast, it's been lives and property and a sense of logic in the world. since the storm, cases of domestic violence have risen 300% as people are forced into tiny FEMA trailers with their families and frustrations and pain. every day life finds a new way to grind down hope. there's something else taken away that we thought we couldn't live without. there's a new obstacle to our future, a new doubt, or a new pain.

the spraypaint on the houseless wall says: "We are still here."

now. here. there are things to remember and things that just need to be let go. and slowly, carefully, there will be healing. new life in scorched forests and out of fallen redwoods. where there is despair, there will be hope. where there is darkness, light. where there is sadness, light. soon. but for now, i will sit in the dark and listen to the beautiful rain and breathe in, and then out. "We are still here."

We are still here.