Navigating the Aftermath of Helene
The golden light of autumn has always made me want to pause in our North Carolina mountains. It’s where people from all over journey to see our mountains catch fire with orange, red, and golden hues as the leaves put on a show before they let go and carpet the craggy ground.
Something about the transition from summer to winter makes me want to linger. Autumn has always felt like a stopgap between the idealized “days of summer” and the enchanting, snow-covered winter that hovers until the hopeful arrival of spring. Yet, autumn carries a sense of loss, a splash of color followed by letting go. Somehow, I yearn to linger in those golden days of fall and cherish the memory of the colorful leaves and the slanting light. However, for those who call western North Carolina home, the beauty of fall now carries an asterisk, as a misplaced hurricane named Helene devastated our season of beauty and pride with rain, floods, winds, and mudslides.
For months now, we have been adjusting to our new reality. I am reminded that when someone says, “We have turned a corner,” I know that it often takes four corners before we are back where we started. As we move into spring, we are keenly aware that Helene changed everything. Where two or more are gathered, there are accounts of devastation and loss, incredible stories of grace and unity, disruptive lies, and harsh truths. The landscape itself has been permanently altered, as have the people who experienced it.
The stages of grief surround us: disbelief, bargaining, anger, depression, and fleeting moments of acceptance. Yet, anyone who has experienced trauma understands that the path to recovery is unpredictable. Certain things can trigger memories; even a simple rainstorm, once a familiar part of mountain life, can cause silence to fall over a group of survivors. The sounds of a bowling alley evoke memories of the hours when rocks relentlessly tumbled down the mountains, damaging homes, bridges, riverbeds, and loved ones.
Months later, upheaval still surrounds us. The bent and twisted guardrails marked with orange spray-painted Xs signify the urgent need to pay attention to the piles of debris and fallen trees that continually remind us of our loss; our senses are jolted at every turn.
From the first day after Helene, people have generously come to help us rebuild and find ways to endure the loss of our homes and sanctuary. Yet, there is a sense of otherness in their presence. It cannot be helped. They will leave this place changed, but eventually, they will depart. We do not begrudge them their leaving, and we will welcome those who follow. Our reality is, “If God is willing and the creek don’t rise again,” we will be here when you return.
However, understand that when you come in the spring, when the apple trees are blooming and the rhododendron and laurel leaves hide the scars on the mountainsides, do not be deceived. The damage remains hidden under the foliage, just as it does with the people who call this place home. Be gentle in your coming and even gentler in your leaving. We all still have a long way to go.
The Many Thoughts of Wanda Kidd 
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