Snowstorms, Power Outages and the Beauty of a Child's Mind

It is February 16th and Bend just emerged from a long-overdue snowstorm that felled powerlines and dumped 6-10 inches of wet, heavy snow on the city. With the road up to campus being what it is, a steep climb up Awbrey Butte, campus was closed for the day and all classes were cancelled. I took the opportunity to spend the day with my family, unplugged as it were, and enjoy the forced serenity. As avid backpackers in our pre-child lives my wife and I are quite accustomed to providing for ourselves, so we ran down a primitive checklist to adjust for our loss of power.

Woodstove--check
Oil lamps, candles and headlamps--check
Alternative refrigeration (snow)--check
Water (faucet and or snow)--check

We thoroughly enjoyed our day together. Snowball fights and sledding in the morning, in for a lunch break with soup warmed on the woodstove, back out for some ski touring in the afternoon. When we returned home to find the power still off we gathered our various light sources and got to the business of cleaning up after a day of play (sponge baths using water heated on the woodstove) and preparing dinner. We enjoyed a meal by candle light, after which my son and I checked on all the neighbors to ensure they would be warm enough for the cold night ahead. Then it was back to the house where we snuggled up next to the stove for bedtime stories illuminated by the soft glow of the oil lamp.

After tucking our son into bed I took a quick walk around the block to see how folks were fairing. As I walked through darkened streets I was struck by the tranquility, the peace of the situation. Freshly fallen snow, houses darkened to one or two rooms warmly lit by candles, and no spastic radiance of images exploding from television screens. Families and housemates huddled together telling stories, playing games, and reading; experiencing each other and existing firmly in the moment. I've never seen my neighborhood more beautiful.

At some point in the night I awoke to an orange glow in the hallway and jumped out of bed thinking I had overstuffed the woodstove and inadvertently set the living room on fire. Instead I found that electricity had been restored to several lamps we'd turned on the previous morning. With wits fully gathered I had the strange sensation that the lights were harshly invading my previously idyllic evening.

The most poignant moment came the next morning as we arose for breakfast. The custom in our house is for my son to climb into our bed for a brief snuggle before dragging me out to get breakfast started. We trudge down the hallway together, check the woodstove for live coals and flip on the kitchen lights. When the light came on my son looked shocked, and he was visibly upset that we weren't using the candles and lanterns from the night before. Rather than get into a senseless debate with him I lit some candles and doused the lights.

His protest marked an important distinction. We don't often turn on the lights because we need the harsh electric light they provide, we turn them on because they are a more convenient alternative to other sources of light. That convenience comes at a price, however, for the simplicity, warmth and kinship other choices allow. These same issues apply to many of the choices we make as a modern society, where we often equate convenience to progress. In my view this is a poor calculation.

Beyond the obvious (and oft cited) natural resource and economic tradeoffs, we make significant human concessions in our obsession with convenience and speed. I was more in touch with my fellow neighbors during this experience precisely because some things we take for granted were no longer available. We shared smiles and laughter about our predicament, excitement about the prospects and a common bond through offers of assistance. We all emerged from it nonetheworse for wear, and I'll bet many of my neighbors felt the same mix of relief and disappointment I did when power was restored.

All of this is to say that moving forward to a sustainable future will most likely involve slowing down, and may involve looking backward to a time when simplicity and function were more important than expediency and convenience. Doing so may provide us with extraordinary opportunities to reconnect with ourselves, our loved ones and our communities; to build a sense of common purpose and unity of spirit. Our society lacks these characteristics today, and whether or not we achieve them will largely depend on our ability to learn from fleeting moments of perceived crisis and seeing the world with the same innocence, creativity and exhuberance as our children do.