“It wasn’t a crisis yet”
I was in a flash nonfiction contest recently, and we had to incorporate the sentence: “It wasn’t a crisis yet” into our essay. What a loaded premonition. It’s gotten me thinking about crises and panic, about how we know if we’re actually on the precipice or not.
You know I ride horses, and this pursuit shatters all notion of control or security – it’s a bit like love and motherhood. Oh, I know my horses are safe and I wear a helmet these days, a concession to the concern of my sweet fella. But the kindest horse can decide to come unglued, the brightest spring day deepens into winter’s chill come evening. What keeps me safe? Is it the hand-washing I hear so much about? Is it prayers and dream-catchers, vaccines and seat belts?
Some folks are quite comfortable thinking about death and disease, I am not one of them. I like battles I have control over, I like to ride horses I know are broke. But I remember a version of myself not too many years ago, a version that was a little spunkier and stupider, a version who tacked up and got on and forgot to ask what this horse could do or if he bucked. I was less safe then, I suppose, but by who’s measure? The same level of safety is present now – I’ve still yet to break a bone in pursuit of my loves, my pride gets damaged often, but it could probably use a little rearranging, couldn’t it?
As I see it, “It wasn’t a crisis yet” could fit into almost any story. There’s always a “yet” lingering – it’s just boiler-plate flu season until some strange new virus floats over from some far-off place and we’re all driven to purchase sanitizer, face masks, and, inexplicably, toilet paper. My ride is a good one until the yet comes around – there’s a bee, a load of buckshot, a biker, countless things can cause a wreck on horseback and none of them are anyone’s fault, there’s nobody to sue, no one to blame. We go outside in t-shirts in January and start our engines, expecting our cars to keep us warm and safe; we expect our homes to keep us dry, our pipes to give us water, our homefires to burn in comfort, our stomachs to not growl.
But the world is full of “yet”. It is full of darkness and cold, wild things and unknowns, the flu and things worse. Accidents happen to the best horsemen and the most careful drivers, our homes cannot be depended upon to not burn down or break open or get foreclosed. I like to live in “It wasn’t a crisis” and forget the “yet” – that’s the breezy way, the happy-go-lucky ideal that we strive for, the version of American life that is purchased, protected, insured, litigated, voted-for.
But I could write a thousand essays about the crises I’ve watched from a distance, the ones I’ve narrowly avoided through dumb luck, the ones I’ve walked right into in blind foolishness. “It wasn’t a crisis yet” isn’t an essay prompt because it’s unique, but because it is the human experience. To run away from this truth is to find desperate unhappiness and still not avoid peril, because our lives are filled with it; because our lives are brief, trembling bursts – and we get to choose if they brim with creativity, courage and love or ooze with despair, fear and false promises.