Dear Readers, Can you believe it’s been five years since we were in the throes of the pandemic, with our parks locked up and uncertainty heavy in the air? This week, my photo memories reminded me that around this time in 2020, I’d written about a blissful day on the river with my boys. We’d found access to a quiet stretch of water through private property, and it felt like an escape hatch, offering a moment of reprieve in the middle of all the fear and unknown.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about that strange time in our global memory as we shared a beautiful and compelling sense of unity, springing forth and blooming during those early pandemic days. Folks exchanged homemade bread for toilet paper, hand-sewn masks for art supplies, garden vegetables for wine, and neighborly favors abounded. We certainly lived in fear, but we also engaged in something that looked an awful lot like grace.
That glorious river day sticks with me. It was facilitated by the kindness of a villager who granted us the privilege of using her access.The sunshine and cool waters were refreshing and calm, and there was solace behind what it meant: that even in the middle of global crisis, there is always joy that’s still to be found. We could be present and still, and we could continue to paddle on.
This week, Portugal was hit by a massive blackout. It stretched across multiple European countries, and for a little while, no one really knew how long it would last. The stillness of it reminded me of those early days in 2020, and the loss of power took me back to the Winter Storm Uri and the 2021 disaster. Our fireplace (that I was grateful and privileged to have) barely kept the cold at bay and burst pipes from the upstairs condo flooded our home. We slogged through it, but not without leaning on each other, our neighbors and friends, and on FEMA.
So when the power blacked-out this week, I shifted into preparedness mode and the wisdom I’d gained from those traumatic events. I filled all my empty jars and bottles with water. I walked from store to store, sizing up the long lines, wondering whether to panic-buy or trust what I already had. And I suddenly realized…I was absolutely okay. I wasn’t perfectly prepared, but I was prepared enough. I had candles, books, peanut butter, bread, sardines and the calm of a gal who’s been through hard parts before. It was going to be fine.
Kelly S tone Educator, C omedian, Resilient Quee n
I ended up sitting in a city park with a paperback book and my low-tech writing tools (ahem…pen and actual paper) in hand, watching the world keep spinning. Tour guides kept walking, sharing their well-rehearsed quips with tiny gaggles of travelers shuffling behind them. The moliceiro boats and their captains kept gliding through the canals. Cafes stayed open, serving the day’s pastries and lukewarm drinks. Patience and normalcy prevailed. It felt like the breeze was whispering through the town with the comforting assurances that we’ve done this before and we’ll be okay.
And that’s what I want to offer to you this week: a gentle reminder that our resilient spirits don’t always roar. Sometimes, it floats like a dandelion seed, calmly riding the wind, confident of a safe resolution.
Y’all, we’ve seen hard times. And we’ve graciously helped each other through them. In these times, when we lose power — literally and figuratively — I hope you remember to breathe and don’t panic. You’re not alone in the dark. And neither am I.
XOXO,
Kelly Stone is an educator, comedian, mother, and author who loves the heck outta the river. She welcomes e-letters at kellystone.
org
or
and adores handwritten notes, postcards, and neat patches via good ol’ snail mail: R dos Combatentes da Gr. Guerra 47, FRAC R, Aveiro, Portugal 3810-087.
