This storm was hardly major, but it was strong enough to knock out our power. My husband and I sat together by candlelight and went to bed early. Come morning, I drank cold coffee and waited for the sun to rise. The first light revealed a pockmarked snow cover and azaleas disguised as ripe cotton.
A winter day without power is a day spent apart from ordinary life. This was a day for having lunch at a local restaurant that managed to be open and forgiving sluggish service and bad food, grateful to spend an hour and twenty minutes in a heated room. It was a day for reading and knitting by a fire, for chopping vegetables in anticipation of the kettle of soup I planned to cook once the lights came back on.
Some would call a day spent in this way a welcome retreat, a chance to disconnect, to break with routine and savor life's simpler pleasures. I am sure that a number of readers expect me to veer in this direction, but I am about to take a sharper turn. I have never been one to accept with serenity "the things I cannot change." This is one reason I write. Every day, I butt my head against ignorance and intolerance, obstacles that many people insist will always impede us. Neither do I suffer gracefully the hurdles that life drops in my path. No, I raged against the dying of the light.