Sunday night, a week before Christmas, Day #5 of a power outage resulting from an ice storm. It is very dark here now, a few days before the Winter Solstice. We wear headlamps as we travel from room to room. The temperature inside the house hovers around 40 degrees, except in the bedroom which we have sealed off so it is in the mid-forties. I am currently under 6 layers of blankets and quilts, wearing long underwear and ski pants, a jacket, a hat, hand warmers. My husband/partner is in the colder kitchen with a Coleman lantern, trying to make spaghetti and meatballs on our Coleman stove. Did I mention that we are disconnected? Our phones don’t work—neither landline nor cell phones—and we have no internet connection. The best we can do is text, though even texts are not getting through reliably. We feel cut off, but we’re trying to stay upbeat, and we’re proud of being survivors (of sorts).

Now, from my perch in the bedroom, I see flashing lights down on the street, a sign that the power company is back at work (they’ve been working in *40-hour shifts* they told us earlier today!). Hope surges again that we may have power before we retire (though I realize it is probably misplaced hope).

This period of power deprivation has made me aware of how fragile our infrastructure is, and how ‘first world’ most American lives are. The conversations I’ve had with neighbors have all been the same. What do we do with ourselves? How do we fill our time? It is not just that we are so dependent on the internet—though that is certainly part of it—but we have discovered how hard it is to operate when we’re cold and when we can’t fully see what’s around us. Even during the day the sun has been blocked by a chilly Medieval fog. For several days my partner and I have been retiring at 8:00 or 8:30 and not gotten out of bed until the sun has risen at close to 7:00.

The urge to now write now is definitely suppressed. Normally my days begin with writing, before anything else but coffee, but now, immediately upon waking, there are survival challenges to think about. How will we stay warm enough? How will we manage meals? Do we have sufficient propane to cook, and batteries for reading after sunset? These concerns make is so clear to me why literature’s ‘canon’ has come, for centuries, largely from people who have lived comfortably, people for whom basic survival issues have mostly been addressed.

When I write I am situated in my head, only faintly aware of my body. Bodily needs are faint murmurs at the back of my consciousness, subordinated to thought. Yes, eventually I feel the urge to pee or eat or move, but I can usually put those needs on hold for long periods of time. There are, however, some bodily sensations that cannot be ignored and which stand in the way of writing. If I am sick I cannot write. If I am extremely cold I cannot write. If I am in severe pain (post-surgical, for example), I cannot write. And certain emotional states that lodge in the body, such as grief or anxiety or fear, also impede my ability to write.

When my son was a young boy I realized that much of parenting was about mood management, making sure he had enough sleep, enough good food, a regular schedule, all the elements that made it possible to maintain a consistent mood. When he hadn’t slept well, or when he’d gotten overly hungry, he tended to get upset and our lives fell apart.

The same idea of consistency applies to writing (at least in my case). Sleep, nutrition, exercise, a regular schedule, all contribute to helping the writing flow. Body satisfied, the mind creates.

[Internet back, I am finally able to post this. Altogether we had no power for 6 days, and no internet and phone for a week and a half. I am deeply appreciative of waking in a warm house, lights and coffee available with the mere flick of a switch. Regular writing can now resume.]