The risk of losing it all

How can you live with the possibility of that day?

It’s a question I’ve been asked since Husband and I moved to this remote coastal marsh.

For five months of the year, that means the possibility of a major hurricane making an unwelcome visit.

Last week was the first time we had to face the possibility that what we’ve built, what we’ve loved, could be wiped out with a single strike of strong winds and storm surge.

We’ve seen some powerful storms over the last few years. This one looked like it had our property in its crosshairs.

We spent two days before the storm picking up everything around our house and our Airbnb, putting it to the highest, most protected place possible.

As the forecast became more and more grim we decided we needed to evacuate.

We packed up about a week’s worth of clothes and everything we needed for the pup and headed out for a hotel about an hour away. Our last move was taking a look around, fully appreciating that it might be the last time we saw the home we’ve come to love looking the same way.

The hurricane did what hurricanes do, changing its mind at the last second. That jog it took 60 miles to the west before heading our direction made an incredible difference.

It meant winds weren’t quite as strong by the time it arrived at our place. It also meant it showed up at low tide, so there was plenty of room in the marsh for the rainwater. The storm surge we had been dreading turned out not to be a problem.

Hero workers had the power back on within seven hours and we were able to return home before bedtime. We have spent the last few days remembering just how lucky we were.

This time.

There will be another day like this, perhaps sooner than we would like.

How do we live with it hanging over our thoughts of what’s possible?

Perhaps this is a question you’ve been asked, too, Dear Reader?

How can you live with that partner?

How can you live in that climate?

How do you go to that job every day?

My answer is that I think we all make deals with our choices.

Often the risk appears riskier on the other side of the fence.

My California friends think “hurricane” and believe I’m nuts. I counter, “When’s the last time an earthquake gave you four days notice to get out?”

And to not take a chance for something you love

seems scarier than the risk we’ve chosen.

We continue to exhale relief. Our biggest burden has been picking up twigs, branches and Spanish moss strewn across the 10 acres.

Relief doesn’t equal ignorance.

Mother Nature might one day indeed take back what is rightfully hers. This was not that day.

So, we move forward, making more memories that no matter what no one will ever be able to take from us.

That’s what we do with