In what used to be a small open field at the end of our quarter-mile driveway are two natural gas holding tanks and an intricate system of above-ground pipes and other assorted mechanicals caged in a chain link fence. Semis regularly pull up to fill up before heading off to who knows where, their eighteen wheels crunching in the gravel parking pad covering my memory of grass and soil that will never see daylight again. Installed and evolving for going on five years or so, this energy enterprise sort of crept in and settled itself in our peaceful little agrihood, rearranging the landscape in a way we’re not quite used to yet.

I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks a loud and high-pitched whine coming from the site. It sticks in the air like Velcro, an irritating earworm song that follows me to the farthest corners of our acreage with its relentless and burrowing sound. I can abide the episodic hum of tires in the early morning hours when the neighbors and other good folks are commuting to their respective bill-paying destinations. But this…this is an audible invader threatening all future walks, outdoor gatherings and after-work longings for stillness on the front porch with its alien annoyance. I never took any of that silence for granted and this morning, a heavy heart grieves the loss of it.

In other news, the mower caught fire yesterday (in the driveway, thank goodness, and not out in the field path, far from the fire extinguisher we keep in the shed) and so now one of today’s to-do list items is moving its lifeless hulk onto the half-cut lawn so it will be easier to load and haul off to the repair shop. I was hanging laundry out back when it happened and heard a string of expletives careening around the corner of the house as Patrick sprinted up the slope toward his shed, unable to tell me what was going on no matter how many times I asked him. More gratitude for how organized he keeps his shed, combined with his firefighter training and experience; in seconds the fire is out and the mower is covered in that white foam-turned-powder. It really was too hot to be mowing the lawn anyway.

I realize that in light of current world events and the suffering of others, these are just a couple of disappointing days for us and we’ve already recovered, moved onto other Things. I have no context for what it’s like to live in a place where forty years of war have shaped and filtered my every thought and daily routine, into which children are born and know no other way of living. I’m not one of hundreds in a tight anxious knot on an airport tarmac, pressed against a fence with no hope of boarding any flight out of government-collapse chaos. And no hurricane or tropical storm is bearing down on my impoverished island homeland, flattening the only hospital for over fifty miles and knocking out power, blocking roads with debris toppled by its ferocious winds.

That reframes the burden of a fracking plant’s whine and a temporarily out-of-service lawnmower.

Completely.

It’s not about comparing struggles in some pointless competition to see who has it worse. To borrow a line from Downton Abbey’s housemaid, Anna, “all God’s creatures have their troubles”. And we do. My treasure will always be someone else’s trash, my heavy load someone else’s paradise. It’s more about perspective and recalibrating my present outlook in order to move forward in hope, doing what we can to ease someone else’s heartache. It’s always a risk to push even the whiff of a complaint or concern out there, knowing that there are bigger and more serious matters to contend with. But as I noticed that unending industrial hum for the duration of my morning walk, I registered the moment of realization that something important to me had changed, and all the feelings that accompanied that shift from “what used to be” to “what is”. In both abundance and want, it’s important to be aware of what’s happening and how we’re feeling about it, no matter where we’re standing on this rotating planet. Consider that a permission slip for your own slice of the human experience. Our hearts can hold more than one anguish or joy at a time. Every day’s headlines test the elasticity of our compassion.

Change is hard. It can be exciting, but usually only when we’re the ones initiating it. If it’s imposed upon us or catches us off-guard, that’s an uncomfortable reckoning and we tend to thrash about for a while until acceptance or futility or creativity demand that we choose one of them and get on with it. Where there are additional options laid at my feet, I pray to be awake enough in the moment to see them. I can call the parent company of that fracking plant and let them know about the sound their equipment is making (maybe they don’t know?), politely ask what they can do about it. I can review the warranty on our mower to see if fire damage is covered. I can—and will continue to—pray fiercely for Haiti and Afghanistan and firefighters in California and the people in chairs taking chemo at cancer centers.

As Patrick heads off to the hardware store on a Sunday (a helpful change from the way things used to be a generation or two ago), I’ll content myself with enjoying the feel of the long cool grass on my shins and give thanks for the ratchety mid-August symphony of cicadas moving from one stand of maples to another. Their song is louder than the one at the end of the driveway and my ears shall welcome it until winter swallows them up for another year.

We do what we can with what we have.