I lived on the Hawaiian Island of Kauai when Hurricane Iniki hit on September 11, 1992 — yes, 9-1-1 and 9/11. It started as a Category 5, but was downgraded to a 4 when it hit the south shore early that afternoon. Hours of raging wind and rain followed. Lucky for us it occurred during the day. We could see it as it happened. I remember the local radio station KQNG broadcasting as long as they could, keeping us updated and together well into the storm. It left the north shore by 7:00 pm. I wondered if it could come back.
The destruction left you speechless (and revisiting the images does the same). At the time, we owned a papaya farm and packing plant. That morning, the first shipments were stored in walk-in coolers to be sent to the mainland U.S. A day or two later, when the roads were clear enough to get to the packing house, we found any trees left standing were stripped, and the rest were battered to the ground from the relentless wind and rain. Although the packing house sustained major damage, many of the boxes of fruit were spared, but they wouldn't make it to the airport because, well, we'd just gone through a major hurricane and nothing was leaving the island. We gave them, and what could be picked from the fields, away to friends, neighbors, strangers, and even the military staff at the temporary "tent cities" providing assistance to residents.
That was quite an experience, but what I remember most was what a remarkable place it was to be during a natural disaster. The outpouring of love; the concern, compassion, and generosity of the residents was overwhelming and it was everywhere. But here's something else.
They cut power to the island before Iniki hit as a precaution. Days later, it was still not restored leaving a quiet offering, a deep connection in the silence created without the buzz of various electronics. You don't realize just how quiet it can become until the machinery shuts down. And if you allow the quiet to permeate your senses, the magic in what you now hear can be truly profound as you are left with only the wonder that is you and your natural surroundings.
Another time, in Hawaii, but on the island of Lanai where I was staying for the weekend, the power went out upon our arrival. We were told it wasn't unusual as the hotel staff scurried around to provide an optimal experience. Dinner was still provided in this upscale restaurant, but the lighting was by candle flame. Interesting how candlelight seems to encourage a hush among the patrons. Voices were low as if not to disturb the others. Servers moved about bringing food and clearing tables with gentle movements and quiet assurance. A reverence filled the air... Then the lights came on and the hum of electricity, not usually noticed, returned. And everyone in the restaurant simultaneously made the same awwwww sound and lightly chuckled at our group disappointment with the shift in atmosphere.
You may have experienced the silence of a power outage and know what I'm talking about, but imagine it on a world scale. According to CNET the lockdowns due to the coronavirus pandemic resulted in a 50% reduction of seismic noise across the globe. The decrease in shipping traffic reduced ocean noise to the point where researchers were able to listen — really listen — to underwater sounds and study more closely the creatures that live there in a quieter more natural habitat. And that's just two examples.
You may have noticed how quiet it was outside in the early days of the COVID pandemic. Very little traffic, less people out and about, and our world settled into a more silent space. An opportunity was created. It was then that we began to hear what we couldn't always hear, even though it was always there—and that may have been the sound of our own voice, inside, longing to be heard.
I bring up these examples of unexpected peace because the International Day of Peace has come and gone. Maybe you stopped at noon with others in every time zone around the world and offered up a moment of silence filled with peaceful wishes. Maybe you promised to incorporate moments like those within your day. It's really a gift to the self to stop, turn down the volume of our lives, or tune out the 'noise' — the frantic parts, the rushing around parts, the worry and doubt — and tune in just for a moment to what's in our heart. Because then we can hear what just might bring clarity, compassion, conviction, direction, or a sense of peace knowing for the moment all is well in our world. Our world is filled with these moments waiting to be noticed, and when we do, we'll know what to do next.
I have been known to get up in the wee hours of the morning (like 2:30 am -ish) because I can't sleep. Rather than toss and turn, I get up and go in the other room. Sometimes I write. Often I just sit and look out the window and allow any concerns to reveal and be resolved while appreciating the moon's graceful glow on everything below. But I always marvel at the irony of this time. As a child, the nights were the worst. If nothing bad happened, there was always the fear that something bad could happen. Sleep never came easy. Now, I view night time as sacred (Note: the word sacred is a rearranged version of the word scared). It's as if everyone in the world is asleep. There's no traffic, few lights are on in the neighborhood, all is quiet, and all is well. The world — my world is at rest. It's a remarkable time to feel connected and aligned with the loving energy around us all the time without the distractions of the day. And in that energy there is contentment, wonder, trust, a quiet joy... there is peace, waiting.
Peace out there, really does start with peace in here
Peace is always present. It’s simply a matter of choosing on its behalf.
Peace to you, my friends!
Debbie Jenae
For more about Hurricane Iniki, read this article in the Department of Defense's newspaper "Pupukahi" ("harmoniously united") published that month. It's a 'technical assessment" but know that the stories of compassion and generosity, though not often reported, were in abundance.
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