in now.

today i sat with my fellow teachers as we listened to a emergency-preparedness expert tell us about how to be when the shit goes down.

i heard him talk of the big earthquake that will hit us soon, bigger than we can imagine--shaking for more than 2 minutes. he spoke about shooter protocol, lockdown, doors barricaded by tiny kindergarten chairs, amassing whatever weapons we could find, such as pencils, pens, notebooks...

he talked about fires burning up the school, children laying crushed under bookcases, toxic blood to protect ourselves against.

i sat there with my hands folded, prayer-style, just trying to keep the panicky feeling of dread at bay. trying to rationalize my sadness. trying to ignore him whenever he said, "i'm just telling you this because this is the world we live in now."

the world we live in now.

i swung back and forth between trying to be reasonable and trying not to lose it. i hung onto the "why am i still here in this fucking state" hook and meshed it with the "we don't have a will-a plan for earthquakes at home--any money saved for retirement--the bookcases could fall on the dogs--climate change is killing us all and we don't even fucking care--" while the guy told those of us who took medication to have three days' worth on hand at school, just in case.

just in case. just in headcase. in case of emergency, please break glass.

i'm okay.

i realize that this world of ours is only what it is. that i am all i am, just here, just breathing it all in, doing the best i can with this moment right now, or the moment that happened as soon as i walked in my door, where both of my children met me in tears over wronged monopoly moves and sadness that clay has left. that moment i could handle. i handled it. i took the kids in my arms and just covered my body over theirs, wrapping my legs over their torsos, trying to keep them as tightly wound to me as i could, if only for that moment.

this world of ours is big and scary and sad, sad, sad, sad. i am always one tiny little leap away from reeling in that feeling, that awareness. i keep it at bay, but i have to acknowledge it as well. i am part of this ocean, too; part of all the waves of sorrow and fear that encompass us all, and to deny that part of myself would be denying that piece of the world.

i will lay in bed tonight, trying to drift off to sleep, and i know i will have that thought about my little piece of this place, the one that is with me today... "is there going to be an earthquake right now? right . . . now? right NOW?" i will try not to worry about my children twenty feet away from me or my dogs in the living room, sleeping under the tall bookcases, not knowing about the danger that is hovering right over them. i will try. i will try. i will try.

for now, though, i will snuggle in this next moment with my children, listening to the same two coldplay songs they've heard for the past four years, trying to synch my breathing with their heartbeats, knowing that we are safe together.

this world, right now. that's what it will look like tonight.