Meaning mapping in the face of shock

No one in the house heard the crash, but the tree certainly fell. My car caught it.

When everything started shutting down for Covid-19, I hastily bought a one way-ticket to be with my partner and I left my loyal Honda Civic parked at a friend’s house. Last week, when my partner suggested I save money and pause the car insurance, I said, “But a tree might fall on it.” Whaat?! This is how, so quickly in the after-shock of loss, meaning wriggles in. My brain hastened to retrospectively illuminate all the cues that led up to this moment. I remembered how vulnerable it had felt to super-stuff my car, to fill it with most everything I own and fly away. Trees will fall.

Nature asserts herself. Yesterday, she penetrated a long, sturdy limb through the roof of my car and deep into its sound system. In the images I have received, sent by my friend as she nimbly maneuvers the interior in avoidance of so much shattered glass, I see electronics spilling out like guts. The limb is incredibly lodged, sticking out of the car roof like a lance.

It poured that evening and I was told all of my belongings were getting rained on. Recent word is that my belongings are okay. But that night, when I helplessly fretted 1,493 miles away, I got a crash-course in the mental aerobics of shock. Blessedly, this particular version avoids injury and fatal loss.

From a distant omniscient view, I noticed that logistical reassurances did nothing to settle me. It was empathic friends reminding me of blessings…