Thursday

March 28th, 2024

Reflections

Extinguishing fear, living happily in the moment

Sharon Randall

By Sharon Randall

Published August 13, 2015

Few things are as beautiful and terrifying as the flash of lightning and roll of thunder.

I'm sitting at a window on a hillside overlooking Monterey Bay, watching a storm light up the night sky bright as day.

I wish you could see it.

Such storms were a rare treat in the years when I lived here. I feel lucky to catch one while I'm visiting. Unfortunately, this one is mostly dry lightning with only a few drops of the desperately-needed rain that drought-weary Californians are praying for.

I love lightning. I just hope it doesn't set fire to the forest.

In 1987, a fire believed started by an illegal campfire came roaring through this forest, destroying more than 30 homes, including every house on this street, except the one in which I'm storm watching tonight.

It belonged to my husband's family. They were evacuated along with some 100 others. No lives were lost, only things.

Some things were irreplaceable - photos, paintings, family heirlooms - but still, they were only things. In time, houses would be rebuilt. The forest would grow back, denser than before. Life would go on.

If you're one of the thousands of tourists who take the famed 17 Mile Drive into Pebble Beach each year and stop at the Huckleberry Hill overlook to snap "selfies," you'd never guess the place where you're standing was once an inferno.

No signs of that blaze remain. But the memories surrounding it linger - especially for those who lost their homes, or feared they would lose their lives.

Fear and loss leave heavy footprints that fade with time but never quite go away.

I watch the storm for its beauty, to see the play of light and hear the clap of thunder and feel the power of nature rumble under my feet.

But I also watch for danger, scanning the forest, praying not to see a sudden burst of flames.

If you live long enough, you learn to spot danger. The smell of a gas leak from the kitchen. The sudden spike in a baby's temperature. The mole on your arm that never changed until now. The ad on TV that lists possible deadly side effects for the drug you've been taking.

We live in a sea of flashing red lights all shouting, "Danger!"

Responsible adults (parents, teachers and even newspaper columnists) watch for those red lights and try to heed them wisely, taking action as need be without overreacting.

Seeing and heeding are not a problem for me. I've been a mother (now a grandmother) more than half my life. I can spot threats in things that will never raise an eyebrow with Homeland Security. But learning to see danger has also taught me not to live in fear.

When my first husband was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live, I woke each morning and fell asleep at night fearing that he would die.

Then one day I had this revelation: Sooner or later, we all die. We don't get much choice about that. The choice we are given is how we live.

Somehow, from that point on, I stopped fearing death and began to be thankful moment by moment for the gift of life.

Four years later, when he died, there were no regrets. We had lived well in the time we were given, grateful and unafraid.

My grandmother used to say that most of what we fear will never come to pass; and if it does, being afraid won't stop it.

What I fear most is that being afraid will blind me to beauty, numb me to joy and rob me of the life I'm meant to live.

I want to thrill at lightning and not worry about fire. I want to say yes to adventure no matter how much it hurts my knees. (At best, it will be fun and at worst, it will make a good story.) I want to be alive while I'm alive. What else is living for?

For now, in my heart, the storm of fear has passed. Clouds are parting. Stars are winking. And a long-legged moon is walking across the bay.

I hope you can see it.

Sharon Randall
(TNS)

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Award-winning essayist Sharon Randall's weekly column has an estimated readership of 6 million nationwide. Born and reared in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North and South Carolina, Randall grew up in Landrum, S.C., and has lived for 35 years in "California of All Places."

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