forgiving the river (forgiving myself)
notes on hurricane helene ravaging my hometown
hello, it’s been a while. a LOT has been happening, but mostly I spent the year wedding planning and now I’m finally done/recovered! I feel like I have a lot to write about, but nothing makes sense to say until I’ve said the following.
It’s been four weeks since the French Broad River spilled out all over the Appalachian mountains of Western NC. After Hurricane Helene took an unprecedented turn inland, hundreds of miles away from the coastline, 1.5+ million were left without power or cell service, hundreds of thousands without potable water, 6,000+ miles of roads were damaged, and countless buildings were destroyed. For days, we were all trying to connect to our people. Some never could. This past week, the hurricane was declared a geologic event.
Another grief to add to my gallery wall—grief of place. In addition to the lives lost, I have cried for the rainbow trout and the salamanders and the hellbenders, whose populations require fresh water streams to survive. I have attempted to fathom that the oldest river in the U.S. has carved new pathways, created new landscapes, destroyed ecosystems, both human and other. I have felt conflict in my gut knowing that the very river that wedding guests floated down merrily the day before my wedding, the very river that flowed through the venue, rose 8 feet above where our shoes had been dancing in the field.
In my anger, it has been difficult to think of the river. A part of me has felt betrayed by the French Broad, by this part of my life that was never supposed to cause harm, by this part of my life that was responsible for some of the rare, regulated memories of my childhood. When I was in her waters, I could breathe. But now she has suffocated so many.
“Don’t be mad at the river. A river is just a river. It’s not the river’s fault.” This is what my husband said while he held me. But I couldn’t shake the churning in my stomach, I couldn’t stop the image of the rushing waters. I responded, “but what if it gets worse?” “what do you mean?”
“Well what if all of my rushing, all of my rage spills out and suffocates those around me? what if I am a destroyer, too?” There it was. My anger with the river, my anger with myself.
To shade some context— in my relationship, my husband and I hold dearly a metaphor of myself as a dynamic river contained by the stability of my partner’s banks. This metaphor has always felt apt for describing our differences and the ways in which we complement one another. Suddenly though, the analogy felt daunting. I felt acutely aware of the rushing inside of me, aware of the ever-present fear that the rushing is The Reason for all of those moments I have not received love where it should have come so freely.
While the waters (me) engulfed me, I said, “will you protect me?” He heard, “will you protect me from harm, from the scary things in the dark?” “of course, always.”
But what I meant was “will you protect me from becoming my mother? will you protect me from raging through the night? will you protect me from me?”
I am a river. I always have been, and yet, I’m still learning how. For a long time, I was restricted by every dam in the book—religion, perfectionism, manipulative relationships, etc. The Church in particular told me that I had to control the waters—hold back my anger, hold back my grief, hold back mystery, hold back woman, hold back empathy, hold back joy in who I am.
I am not grateful to live with PTSD but one of the gifts she has given me is the inability to hold back anymore. Every dam has broken. In every moment, I am rage and power and love and sorrow. To have any single prospect of recovery is to meet myself and the world around me with truthfulness. I found that Christianity could not hold that. I found that many relationships could not hold that. I found that my expectations of myself could not hold that. And if I wanted to live, if I wanted to find space to hold that, I had to let go of the resources I was expending on suppressing the floods.
But the floods. The floods. The floods. I have not stopped thinking about the floods. Not stopped thinking about the toxic waste rising, the mud left in its wake. The bodies. The forests. The floods.
Nothing could have prepared anyone in Western North Carolina for the shock, for the devastation, for the standstill. Watching from the Midwest has felt dystopian. I want to be home. I want to see it with my own eyes, to witness the people who are safe, to see the broken roads, to look out onto the new landscape. I want to put my hand in the river. To comfort her through the change.
My husband is right. A river is just a river. She does not have a say in this. She does not even have a say in what is built beside her, poured into her, broken around her. The river responds to her circumstances.
When human use of fossil fuels broke weather itself, the French Broad raged. She was doing only what she could— moving herself in new directions, distributing what alluvium she could muster, and passing along the horrors she had seen.
This great breaking has been horrific and sacred. The river’s rage must be honored, just like the rage that is in each of us.
In these times, honoring the rage feels like the only way through. How beautiful to be brave and forthcoming like a river.
xx,
allie
Softening Me
(all hurricane-related this time)
“Resilient” by Rising Appalachia is always my go-to grief song, but right now, the soft banjo and the southern lilt of these sisters’ voices feel like home.
I’m sure you’ve seen photos of the devastation in the city of Asheville. Beloved Asheville is doing incredible work to help the community (distributing supplies, building housing solutions, restoring musical instruments, etc.). If you want to support the city, this is the place to donate!
North Carolina’s Weather Authority got me through the early hurricane days with accurate and comprehensive updates! This is a college student at NC State who loves weather & just wanted to help! So freaking cool. If you’re in NC, make this your weather page!!
T-Shirts (& more)! Hometown! Proceeds go to rebuilding WNC.
My friend, as always you right with an honesty that both dislocates and brings back home. What a gift to read your beautiful, beautiful, thoughtful words. Thank you thank you thank you!! xxoooxxo