The Belly of the Beast
I drive down I-40, the Blue Ridge Mountains at my back, both relief and sadness knotted in my belly. Excited about a shower, a flushing toilet, hugging my children tight, (whom we ferried down I-26 3 days after the storm to their dads). I am exhausted and emotionally gutted, my heart still heavy and sore with shock. I have yet to see the complete news coverage of the full impact of Hurricane Helene.
Up until two days ago, this highway was impassable, the mudslide covered more than 3 lanes. I see chunks of the mountains missing and crumbled, remnants of a massive mudslide linger. Today, finally I can drive east on I-40. In the opposite direction, convoys of utility trucks, ambulances, vans and trailers carrying water and relief supplies, power up the mountain with purpose. My heart swells with hope.
I’ve been blown away by the outpouring of love and support from people nationwide, and I’ve been awed by my neighbors and community. In the past few days I’ve seen people come together, across political divides, languages, and backgrounds to lift up and support each other with unfathomable kindness, as we battled to survive and take care of each other together.
Tom and I worked to cook free meals at Blunt Pretzels in Swannanoa’s Beacon Village days after the storm.
In the coming days at my parent’s home, I will only just realize the full scale of the devastation in Western North Carolina. I am floored to see coverage of my own neighborhood and community of Swannanoa repeated over and over again on national and nightly news. News reals show the ripped-up roads, tractor trailers piled like discarded toys, sacked buildings, and scattered debris that lays just blocks from my home.
The news coverage has no way to relay the overwhelming horror of walking through your own ransacked neighborhood. What is a shock-value news clip or cheap online click bait for a news organization, is no movie or nightmare for my neighbors and I, but instead our stark reality.
Before the news cameras arrived, and the relief trucks rolled in, just hours after Hurricane Helen passed over, we were held hostage by flood waters and blocked roads in our own neighborhoods. The panic was palpable as people began to run out of water, no gas could be found, and we remained unable to call or connect with loved ones.
After a few days away from Swannanoa, the sadness really sinks in, the deep loss, the fractured homes and hearts, so many unknowns lurking in our minds, the “what ifs” spinning tirelessly. As the shock wears off and the reality of all we have lost and all we have to rebuild, there is weariness, a collective grief, an ache for a home and community that will never quite be the same.
And what happens when the media has moved on to its next big story, the relief workers have returned home, and we are only left with this wreckage?
River Arts District, Photo Credit: Peter Lorenz
Mountain folk are a sturdy, resilient lot. Known for being super self-reliant, survivalists, accustomed to living off the land but our landscape has changed drastically. Helene swept through so fierce and foreboding, striking us down, wounding us deeply.
We have much to grieve in the days ahead, much pain to process, feelings to muck through. How do we rebuild our sunken spirits, our hope? How do we come to terms with survivor's guilt? How do we mend our hearts and rebuild our communities?
There are no easy answers, but in the words of gifted songwriter and musician Ruston Kelly, from his song “Belly of the Beast,” from his EP Weakness, Etc:
“In the belly of the beast
When I'm small and afraid
I will sing, ‘Hallelujah,’ and burst into flames . . .
Resurrect me, I wanna be more than half alive
From the belly of the beast
In the heart of the dark
I'll stand on my feet and try”
Kelly, Ruston. “Belly of the Beast.” Ruston Kelly, 2023, https://www.rustonkelly.com/ .
