OCT 16th was a very significant day for Ireland as the world watched Hurricane Ophelia lash its fury on the island in an unprecedented manner.
It was the most severe weather event to hit the country in over 50 years. Schools were closed and public transport services disrupted.
More than 300,000 properties were without power and three people lost their lives.
A status “red” warning was in place and I stayed indoors, as advised by Met Eireann (the Irish National Meteorological Service), and watched the storm spiralling on the cold horizon with the wind unleashing a torrent of its own.
The trees were in a mad dance and leaves were flying like a pack of cards leaving behind a tangled mess. I thought about the structure of the storm. I remembered there was an eerie silence before the storm set loose its full magnitude.
I thought about the eye of the storm where there was calm and I thought about the intensity and duration of the storm.
From afar, behind the century-old brick walls of my house I felt safe. I was inside looking out.
What if it was the other way round — outside looking in?
I thought about the times when there were “raging storms” within us and others looking on had no clue about the private storms of pain, disillusionment, disappointment and betrayal.
These storms can last for days, months, years and generations even.
Hurts that are not dealt with become fossilised over time. Think layer and layer of hurt piled up like sedimentary rocks that are formed by the deposition and subsequent cementation of material. That is the eerie calm before the storm.
When we were warned about the scale of Ophelia I immediately took into the house, garden ornaments and smaller potted plants that I thought would be smashed to smithereens if left outside.
Hachi, my Labrador stayed indoors the whole day too and he was most pleased.
I feared for my greenhouse. Friends told me that their greenhouses flew like flying saucers in the last storm, not half as forceful as Ophelia. I searched the Internet for measures to minimise breakage and every website pointed me to the importance of the foundation of the house — how it was laid and how the house was anchored.
There are no methods set in stone to overcome the storms of our lives because we are all individuals and every storm is different.
Just like protecting garden ornaments and smaller pots, we can brace for impact by doing what we can for ourselves and others.
It helps to have a firm foundation — a bedrock of beliefs and values to remind ourselves that we matter and this too will pass. That is the eye of the storm. A place of solace and strength amidst it all.
There was great sunshine the day after, as if nature was compensating for the terror that it had inflicted on all and sundry the day before. I looked into my garden from my bedroom window.
The two towering trees were almost skeletal.
The grass was littered with red and brown leaves, which would make a neat pile for me to jump in.
There was no necessity to deadhead the dahlias and mini roses because the winds had stripped the bushes bare.
I smiled when I saw that the greenhouse was still intact.
When I opened the door to embrace the new day, many neighbours had the same idea, united by the feeling that we were the survivors of “the apocalypse”.
“Hi John, Hi Pat, Hi Anthony,” I greeted them.
“Hi Soo,” they replied in unison.
“Terrible storm yesterday,” I said.
“Tis ya,” they said and rolled their eyes.
Thank God it’s over.
Dr Koh Soo Ling was a lecturer at Universiti Teknologi Mara and now spends her days enjoying life as it is