During the first week of December of 2005, I spoke at two workshops on Tough Transitions in LaFayette, Louisiana, sponsored by the Grief Education Group. This was my first time to be in Louisiana since Hurricane Katrina, so the devastation and upheaval of that event were very much on my mind. No matter how many images I had seen on television or how many stories I had read in the newspaper, there was still something about being in Louisiana that made the hurricane’s aftermath so much more real for me.

At the Ramada Inn where I stayed there was a family of four in the room next to mine who were evacuees from New Orleans, one of twenty-some families living temporarily in the hotel because they had nowhere else to go. The two children in the family next to me in the hotel were quiet youngsters who, with their father and mother, were making do—as they had for months now—in a typical Ramada Inn room with two beds, a dresser, and a night stand. When the little boy and girl wanted to play or even just to be in another space, they had to go out on the sidewalk in front of the room. I saw them at breakfast the two mornings I was there, and it was clear that they had made a kind of routine for themselves. The food put out on the counter was the same every day; and the children and their parents clearly had a little menu they had made for themselves which they put together each morning. Somehow being so close in proximity to this family broke my heart in even new ways and made Katrina so much more than the name of a storm or a news event for me.

In the afternoon before the first workshop, I went for a walk. I was almost to the half-way mark of my exercise—thirty minutes out, thirty minutes back—when I looked up toward the sky. In my line of vision when I looked up was a very tall silver-colored streetlight pole. And on top of this pole a bush was growing!! I could not believe my eyes! It was a complete surprise!

My first thought, since it was in early December, was that this greenery was part of the LaFayette city Christmas decorations. But that didn’t make any sense, really, and when I turned to look at the streetlight pole behind me and across the street, I saw that there was no greenery on top of those poles. How could a quite large bush be growing out of the top of a metal streetlight pole? I could imagine a bird dropping a seed, but how could there be enough dirt for the seed to settle into on this slender metal pole that far up in the air? I was—and still am—mystified.

I was so taken with this bush growing out of the top of a streetlight pole that I walked back to the hotel and got my camera to return and take a picture. I kept thinking, “This is amazing…to see a healthy green bush growing out of the top of a metal streetlight pole.” Who would ever imagine that a bush would grow out of a metal light pole high up in the air? For me, this sight didn’t fit any reality I knew. If I had tried to imagine something new, I doubt if I would have ever thought of this possibility on my own.

The more I thought about the surprise of looking up and seeing the bush, the more that surprise became a symbol of hope. Growth, beauty, life…where you would never expect it…where it had no “right” to be.

And the longer I was in LaFayette the more the bush on top of the light pole became an even stronger image of hope for me. There was the woman who said, “We will be at Mardi Gras if we have to walk under umbrellas the entire time.” There was the teacher who left one of the workshops a bit early so that she could tutor the Katrina evacuee students in her class before they took their final exams. There was the person who told me about how the city administration of LaFayette had done everything they could to help the more than a hundred companies that had moved their offices from New Orleans to LaFayette after the storm. There was the woman who told me about driving to New Orleans just to walk on some of the streets to grieve with the people who were attempting to clear out the rubble of their homes. And there was the little boy and girl next door to me at the Ramada Inn who stood on the narrow concrete sidewalk to play with their toys.

So, even though the situation still looks bleak for everyone affected by Hurricane Katrina, I’ve been to Louisiana now. I’ve met some of the people directly involved. I’ve been in the room with over a hundred dedicated professionals and caring individuals and listened to their commitments and their plans for living out to the other side of this devastating event. I’ve overheard people talking in the airport and at the table in the restaurant next to me. And I’ve watched an evacuee father and mother make breakfast for their two little children in a hotel buffet area, doing everything they could to create some sense of normalcy.

A bright green, healthy bush is growing out of the top of a tall silver-colored metal light pole in LaFayette, Louisiana. I have been surprised into hope.

Love,

Dr. Elizabeth Harper Neeld offers wisdom and practical insights to anyone whose life is in a time of transition, change, grief and loss of any kind. As an internationally recognized and accomplished consultant, and author of more than twenty books - including Tough Transitions and Seven Choices: Finding Daylight After Loss Shatters Your World - she is committed to work that helps lift the human spirit.