Since the last two weeks of storm and rain, the knoll upon which our house is firmly resting, pours with water. Winter transformations of California creeks are historical I know, but ours at the base of our drive is wild within its mercurial borders, the arroyo to the right is enjoying its ten year spree, and outside our back doors the inches deep lake that builds up like the ebb and flow of the tides is currently ebbing, yet I think the creek that periodically runs down our back driveway is the culprit that undermined the big black oak, and the two madrones that ultimately uprooted forward across the drive and laid across the power lines that kept our houses dark for a few days.
It is the stillness of the power outages that surprises me and calls to me. Yes, I'm frustrated that I can't shower, and irritated that I must haul water in from a nearby source to flush toilets, and impatient with the general mayhem that accompanies a household with lack of water and electricity, however there is something more deeply awesome about the blackness and stillness that is bigger than the frustration, irritation, and impatience.
I am struck by the dynamism of the water bubbling up despite our best effots to manage and direct it, and how it has, over the years, begun to restructure our property. More trees in less critical places are uprooting all over our place. Chaos reins for now. Monday morning we chain-sawed our way out to our jobs. Branches and debris up to six feet high line the upper drive for several hundred feet.
However, in the black stillness of the nights with no power, I'm strangely grateful as I imagine welcoming a new spring with sunlight falling in places it hasn't for years. This year, especially, our humble home and extending property has met the moving, breathing, alive and LIVING water and has been distinctly reconfigured. I eagerly await its transformation.