Tornado warning. Ooh, I’m sooo scared.
It did not sink in right away that a tornado had just occurred. It wasn’t until the following morning that it was confirmed by the National Weather Service. The destruction was clear: 50-foot trees laid down across the streets; root systems unearthed and buckling the sidewalks; flattened cars; the grey metal pole of the laundromat’s sign on the corner still attached but blown parallel to the ground. An hour after the storm, once the clouds completely dissipated and the sun shone again, I surveyed the damage street by street and my street, Jarvis Avenue, was demonstrably hardest hit. And the canopy of trees, upon which I had relied for 20 years for privacy, shade, protection, relaxation, and consistency, had been mercilessly ripped apart. My bad for expecting mercy in the first place.
2020 was a year of confounded lessons. The human interaction and ease of movement we forgivably take for granted can be ripped away, and we flail to find our footing in a new reality. The peace we rely upon can no longer be tethered to external objects. All we can truly rely on is our mechanism to endure.
