If My Oven Could Curse . . .
If an oven could curse, I am convinced this image conveys what it would say. Here is a thing that not even I, She Who Speaks with Spitting Squirrels, ever expected to write, but here we are:
I am One with my oven today, wondering: WTF just happened here?? Inquiring ovens demand to know.
You have no idea how much better I feel today, after sleeping in a warm bed, shedding the nineteen layers of clothing I’d been wearing when the heat was off. Okay, it was 50 degrees in the house, hardly life-threatening, as this girl from the Midwest well knows, but not conducive to restful sleep either. Nor was the army of angry appliances beeping and squawking messages of frustration at trying to connect to an electrical service running at half power all night. Nor was the horrific howling and booming, akin to the B-2 bombers that roar over us en route to the Rose Parade, of the furious gales outside.
No, last night, a miracle occurred: I slept nine solid hours. In my own bed. In my own home.
Grateful as I am, I cringe to say that out loud. It feels like an insensitive brag when so many have lost so much, so many slept on somebody’s floor last night, or slept not at all, despairing their losses.
And yet, failing to appreciate what I still have, the miracles I normally take for granted, feels equally heartless. I walk around my home in wonder today—my mom’s photo albums, my daughter’s 8-year-old self-portrait, my kitchen table that’s hosted so many family game nights—they are all still here. The 60-foot tall Atlas Cedar tree that towers over our house, having politely depositing its severed limbs on the driveway, not our roof, still stands. I look down my street and all the homes of my neighbors are still here. I can count the fingers and toes of all my family members because they are still here. What an embarrassment of riches.
I know this wonder and gratitude will fade away as “normal life,” whatever that is, returns. I know I’ll take electricity and internet access for granted again. And I will forget to drop to my knees in prayer when I hear a siren.
But, for today, I vow to mark every miracle, as best I can. I am ever so grateful for all of you who reached out to check on us.
We are not entirely out of the woods—the winds could kick up again on Monday—and many around Los Angeles County continue to face life-threatening horrors. But the experiences of this week have reminded me, with the force of a tempest, to give thanks for what I have, for as long as I have it.
