Spiderman and Rainbows

On Saturday, I headed out to McCleary, Washington to Hartman Jewelry repair. The Hartmans are fabulous people. She is as nice as he is cynical. What could be better? Their little shop is packed with fun things and I always spend a ton of money I didn't mean to.

I went to get my watch fixed. Yes, the birthday watch. Hope springs eternal, I suppose. Plus, it was Hartman's 10th anniversary and watch batteries were 25% off.

I did not need a new battery. The friction pin on the minute hand has burned out. Fascinatingly though, after the check up (no repair) the watch worked fine for the 35 minutes my husband wore it. As soon as I put it on, the minute hand started cu-chunking its way backwards.

The friction pin can be affected by electro-magnetic force, and therefore, a girl who has been hit by lightning.

More and more I am coming to grips with the reality that our run-ins with Mother Nature, just like radioactive spider bites, become part of our biological fabric.

I can forget that I was hit by lightning--or at least go for years and years without thinking much about it. It's not something that has all that much relevance to my day-to-day life. Except when I burn out a watch or crash a computer system by standing too close to a critical component. Then I reminded that it's not a memory. It's a force in my being.

Our outer world gets under our skin. It changes us in ways we can't consciously explain. And then it all oozes back into our lives in ways we can't consciously explain. We're all a little bit like Spiderman that way.

And that's the good news, I think.

Even Sarah Palin now agrees that climate change is eeking its way into our lives. The question is whether the change will be slow and incremental or catastrophic.

Mark Lynas argues in Six Degrees (a great new book from National Geographic) that the earth will heat up one degree at a time causing incremental change. It will become part of us and we'll face the next degree with our new and improved selves. John Medina makes a compelling case for how we adapted when we "came down from the trees" in his fun new book Brain Rules.

It gives me hope.

But here's the thing: I was hit by lightning on top of the Mount of the Holy Cross in August, 1978. Although lightning is a regular occurrence in the Rocky Mountains towards the end of summer, it was still unexpected and remarkably sudden.

The sky was gray. There was no rain, no thunder, no warning. Suddenly the world turned white and blue. I was flying through the air, balls of electricity flying from my finger tips. I landed face first in a small trickle of water--the headwaters for some mountain stream.

It happened at the speed of light. Nothing we knew or believed mattered. We were powerless to act.

A part of me still believes that when the weather changes it will be violent, sudden, unexpected and crippling. Of course it will change us forever, but what will we bring to the experience? Will our own inner Spiderman be suited up and ready to rock?

Everyone in my Girl Scout troop made it down from that mountain in one piece. My sister took care of me. "Stay down!" the leaders had shouted after the lightning sent us all flying. My sister crawled to me from somewhere and covered me up with an old Army poncho. It was thick and smelly and I could hear the hail thudding violently against it. She marveled at the blue balls of fire zipping from my pinkie. I marveled at her presence of mind.

And then someone called out, "There's a rainbow!" It was all over. And in an instant, I realized exactly why we humans put stock in mythical stories.