Flood

Last night I had a weird dream that I was drowned in a few inches of water and then took Mrs. Wigglebottom to the beach, where she behaved pretty well until the last second, when some jackass wouldn't put his dog on a leash and Mrs. Wigglebottom had to warn that dog away. This morning, I got out of the shower and the phone was wringing. It was the Butcher, calling to tell me that the downstairs was flooded. I don't think the dream was a premonition. I think it just seared itself into my conscious mind because of that phone call. After he called, I called the Professor and asked her to go over and help him. I hope he doesn't mind. I'm frazzled and wishing I could be at home at the same time I'm glad it's not my problem to figure out where the shop vac is coming from. One thing that always strikes me when I travel--overhearing people who handle uncertainty even worse than I do--is that we're all fucked up. Deeply fucked up. We cling too tightly to things that don't matter and don't pay enough attention to the things that do. And yet... And yet, I'm struck by how profoundly generous people can be and how brave and open. Again, as I say all the time, there are no perfect people, no superheros who get to act while the rest of us just sit on the sidelines and watch. There's just you and me--the boy who shuts off the water; the girl who watches the dog and hopes for better things; the kids going to college for the first time in the family... My favorite stories are about rag-tag bands of misfits who set off on adventures. And it occurs to me, over and over again, that we are all those misfits, banding together, and this is our adventure.