The Ice Storm

As Americans scurry about preparing for extreme cold weather, a far more dangerous layer of ice is creeping into our cities.

I write with one eye frozen shut, fingers skittering across the keys. It’s cold everywhere. The circuitry of my body is casting sparks that keep me just warm enough to carry on.

Houses in Oklahoma Covered in Ice after the January 2007 North American Ice Storm, courtesy of Adobe Stock.

I remember the last time we had cold and ice like this. I was driving north on the slippery roads between Brooklyn and Massachusetts, headed home to be with my kin. The city had taken as much of me as she could, and spit me out into the relentless night. After three monotonous hours I escaped the highway and followed familiar secondary streets into the emptied small towns of New England. As I got closer my heart softened.

In the quiet of that winter night I imagined that the photons falling from the yellow streetlights were making tiny shushing sounds as they were absorbed into the snowy ground. Icicles dangled from the wires amidst leafless trees encased in shimmering cocoons of translucent winter glaze. Every visible surface was reflecting and refracting particles of light. The town’s denizens hid behind their walls, hovering around the heat sources they had conjured.

Finally I arrived at my destination. My car slid gently to a stop in front of my friend’s house, and I stepped out. There was a thin crust of ice on top of several inches of soft snow, and the souls of my boots broke it open with every crackling step I took toward the front door. The power grid was down here, but the moon was kind enough to illuminate my way.

Everything was covered with the winter glaze. The neighborhood felt like a frigid Pompeii, where the volcano had churned up snow and ice instead of ash. It was truly magical, but too cold to stand outside and appreciate.

Inside the house I was greeted with flashlights and candles, friendly smiles and voices. We rely so much on sight that it is a relief when we can let the eyes rest and just enjoy our other senses. I love my friends. It is pure comfort to be with them even if we are huddled and layered in a home without municipal heat. Our ancient souls can find a way to the warmth.

Memory is a funny thing. I write this all down poetically because that is how the neurons in the old mainframe of my mind present the past. Neurons fire and keep my memories warm. Meaning is what we make of it.

A few days ago I was in Walmart, and the customers were all pretending it was a minor armageddon. The storytellers and weather prophets had gotten us all riled up. Amidst the anxious shoppers, I found it a comfort to worry about a snowstorm. Much better than worrying about the other ICE. If the weather could just distract me from the news for a couple of days, it would be medicine.

Inside that ugly corporate box the bread shelves were empty. There were plenty of Chinese-made sweaters and knick knacks talking about Jesus, but the good Lord wasn’t there to help make more loaves. I’ve heard the ocean is running low on fishes, too. Jesus Christ.

I was there because my partner had suggested I find a generator or propane heater to protect myself from the coming uncertainty. Alas, there was nothing left. Walmart was the third and last store I visited. I bought a frozen vegan pizza and some seltzers instead.

Riding the storm out. Remember that song? Here I am, sitting on the couch with my dog and my keyboard, waiting for the fallout.

Memory reminds me that so far I have survived everything that life has thrown at me. Even the Marines couldn’t kill me with their poison water. Some kind of weird luck. I want to get anxious about this storm, but my nervous system isn’t sympathetic with my desire.

Instead, my mind is on the other ICE storm. The one in Minneapolis. I’ve heard it said that history rhymes. ICE certainly rhymes with storm trooper and jack booted thug. In this story the boy who cried wolf is now the liberal who cried Nazi. We said it too much when it wasn’t quite true. Now they are really here amongst us and it feels like no one is listening to our cries.

Or are they? The brave resisters of Minneapolis are out in the streets by the thousands despite their city being enveloped by freezing cold weather. The ICE monsters are there in the cold, too. They are cruel and racist. I feel like fascist has become too cliche of a word, but I am not sure what else to call them.

I am a yogi and I want to see their humanity. I want to find a soft spot to sink my love and compassion into. They make it so hard. What kind of trauma creates humans who lack decency and humanity?

On my yogic journey I often thought the demons in Hindu mythology were cartoonishly selfish and evil. Yet those qualities can thrive in people’s ICEy hearts. In one of the great Indian epics, the Ramayana, the antagonist is an asura (evil spirit) called Ravana. In the story Ravana kidnaps the protagonist’s wife (Ram and his wife, Sita) and thus starts a chain of events which will eventually be his undoing.

This is the list of “qualities” ascribed to Ravana:

• Arrogance and Pride - Ravana’s ego was his greatest flaw. He considered himself superior to the gods and invincible due to his boons.

• Lust and Disregard for Consent - His history includes forcing himself on women. Thanks to a curse placed by one of his previous victims, he wasn’t able to rape Sita.

• Blind Attachment to Family - He values family pride over dharma and wisdom. I suspect he liked to put his name on buildings.

• Stubbornness - Multiple people warn him of the consequences of his actions, yet he refuses to listen or change course, even as his kingdom faces destruction.

• Cruelty - His rule, while prosperous, was maintained through fear and domination rather than righteousness.

These flaws illustrate how even great knowledge and power become dangerous when divorced from humility and dharma. It perfectly describes our president 45/47. And yes, Ravana also has a love of opulence.

His capital city Lanka is described in vivid detail in the Ramayana as having buildings made of gold, silver, and precious gems. The city was architecturally magnificent with towering palaces, beautiful gardens, and streets that gleamed. It wasn't just wealth but ostentatious display of it.

This colorful story from another culture’s past gives me some hope. Monsters rise and fall throughout history. Like school shooters, they want to have their names remembered, if only for the terror they reap. They are the slippery slopers, the boiling frog-potters. Our congress-people are their demon kin, watching it all go down, applauding it for money, trying to brainwash their own consciences. A glorified gangle of horrible monsters.

I often ponder how god would let this all happen. The Christian original sin explanation seems to only lead us back to this horrible place again and again. The people talking about how much they love Jesus are often the same ones committing or permitting atrocities. The Christian religion got hacked early on, and it’s been run by the worst amongst us ever since.

We need to simplify. Love each other. Love people who come in different colors and have different sexual desires (is that soooo hard?) There is enough of anything and everything to go around. We choose daily between infinite love and infinite suffering.

The arc towards moral justice is long, longer than the ICEy nights we struggle through holding our loved ones tightly to our skins. In my beginner’s mind interpretation of reality there are spiritual tools that help me keep my equilibrium.

The first is the message of the Bhagavad Gita in regards to karma yoga.

“You have the right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits thereof.” — Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 2, Verse 47

A simple example; we can vote for the best of the worst, but who wins is not our decision. If we look around at everyone who may have voted differently and feel only hatred, then we have lost our own souls. We should still serve them at the soup kitchen, or in their five star restaurants, and feel compassion for the journey that led them to see a different world than we do.

It is not surrender, we can still stand up with shaky voices and speak truth to power. It is for sanity’s sake that we give up the notion that the arrows from our quivering voices will hit their targets. Perhaps they will, perhaps they won’t. Perhaps what we hit instead will make a difference only after we have shaken off this mortal coil.

Simple, but not easy.

The second is the problem of evil. If there is a god, then why this? The answer from the east is that an almighty, all knowing consciousness would become bored and need to forget itself. Eventually it would end up divided into tiny variations of itself, engaged in individual struggles that distract one another from the truth of their oneness.

Another way of looking at it, this realm we inhabit is meant to be just as it is. There may be other realms and lifetimes where justice prevails, where the fruit falls from trees into our outstretched hands, where we all just love. Here in this life, we are meant to struggle and yearn. Coming to peace with that is the spiritual path.

Here in my home, the night has turned to morning. The lights are still on. The heat is still flowing from the vents, and the the espresso maker is doing its job without complaint.

Having this chance to write has unburdened my soul for the moment. My eyes are now both open and my sparks are all contained.

I love writing so much. If you have made it to this last paragraph, I thank you. I hope something that came through me finds purchase in you. There are particles of light bouncing around the universe trying to find us. Keep the soft landing pad of your heart open. Speak up, and live your truth.