Last Thursday I was sitting at my computer typing an email, when suddenly, everything went dark.
My first thought was, “Oh no! The power is out!” This was immediately followed by feelings of amusement and relief; I no longer had anything to do. Soon my coworkers and I learned the extent of the outage: Not just our building? Not just our campus? Not just our zip code? As we adjusted to this newly appointed reality, we had a lovely conversation about global climate conditions and our sense of purpose in life. Then we went home.
As I walked back to my little apartment, passing every car stuck in traffic, and I began to notice two things: 1. People were outside—walking, sitting, exercising—and 2. People were talking to each other. Having been released from the compulsion to keep up the pace, each in their own space, staring at their respective screens, people had emerged into the community. Some were enjoying $1 scoops of ice cream from Baskin Robbins. Others were waiting in a huge line in front of the grocery store to get water, cash only. Still others had put blankets down on the grass and were reading in the afternoon light. It was a perfect opportunity, I decided, to poll my fellow Americans.
My question was simple: “How does it feel to be powerless?”
Most people seemed to be taking it in stride, shrugging it off as a temporary disruption, enjoying the rest of a gorgeous summer day. Those with complaints had reasonable ones (It took me two hours to get home; I might miss my flight to Seattle tomorrow; nothing is open).
The entire crew of Regents Pizza had posted around tables outside of their store. One man in particular was smiling so broadly as I approached that my question was already answered. “What can I do?” he said, thoroughly pleased. “It’s out of my hands. I get to relax. I have been working all my life. This is great.”
“But what if the power doesn’t come back on?” I challenged him.
“Then I go back to the old days, like my grandparents used to do, growing my own food. I can survive with anything, using what’s around me.” Even my suggestion that there would be no cold beer didn’t faze him. He saw no problems, only solutions. Take the beer, he said after a moment, and bury it in the sand at the beach overnight. In the morning, it will be cold. Voila.
Others, however, didn’t share his exuberance. “It’s not good,” said a strained-looking man, on his way to his car. “There’s a lot of stuff…” he waves his hand around, indicating something sinister in the air. And he had a point—this was a reality check. How dependent are we on external systems to provide our basic needs—systems that, when feces hit the fan, may be dysfunctional?
As night fell I could see candlelit dinners under a sky full of stars. It felt peaceful. And I was reminded that we have the right—and the responsibility—to keep this peace in our lives. Technology is a wonderful tool. But we musn’t let it distract us from learning to be present, to sit with our friends and families, or talk to our neighbors. It is when we unplug the machines, and tune in to ourselves and each other, that we rediscover the charge in human connection.
It’s Monday now and back to business as usual. But I hope the lesson stays home: where does our power
really come from?
