A few days after writing the last post I drove a couple of hours south, planning to spend two days writing and living in a tent.
River Pretty is a retreat held twice a year, but I’d never been. Feverish from overwork, I decided I’d go anyway.
I slept soundly.
Then I sat on a sleeping pad in my tent and waited for the thunder to dissipate. This wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had: waiting to be struck by lightning.
So, I moved to the floor of someone’s cabin, room lit with headlamps and phone flashlights. We ran into the rain to hear updates from the sheriff.
The river rose toward the restaurant, then through it, then the water crashed across the road.
We were told to hop into our cars and drive for higher ground.
But after I got home the next day I found it difficult to analyze Charlotte Perkins Gilman or study the Rhizome, even though I’ve lived through natural disasters before.
I certainly could not write. I couldn’t feel anything.
So instead, I thought of settling into a dark green seat in a nearly-empty baseball park, so close I can hear players running down the baseline.
Instead of lightning crashing through the sky, imagine watching those players as 6-year-olds, fireflies taking the place of stadium lights.
Instead of the crack of thunder, the baseball pings off the aluminum bat.
Rather than remembering the wind whipping at the edges of my tent, I can still hear the ball plop against the protective netting that spans the seats between dugouts.
I couldn’t run through the rain without slipping in the mud, falling and scraping my hands on the gravel.
But notice how dust glitters in the air as the runner shakes the dirt off his hands.
Earlier this spring I listened as scouts chomped on sunflower seeds while watching prospects.
As the water rose we drove to the Tecumseh Volunteer Fire Department Station.
In the morning, someone made us pancakes.
I always like to see the sunlight glittering on a batting helmet.
I notice I can see it again.
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