I’m worried about all those flashing red lights on my dashboard. Are you experiencing blinks and beeps on your instrument panel saying that something’s bad-wrong? Now, I’m not talking about the dashboard of my car.

I’m talking about what I (and likely many of you) have been cognizant of for some years now, when we haven’t been otherwise distracted: an array of troublesome auguries throbbing in ruby hues across the zeitgeist. A few times, when hope promised to prevail, the forebodings receded. But since January 6, 2021, warning signs have persistently pulsated.These past few weeks, the alarms have been never-ending. I’ve done everything I can think of to prepare myself for the upcoming regime change. And yet I wake up in the middle of the night with the wail of an air raid siren spinning up to a howl in my mind. Or I start at the sudden shriek of a klaxon—in the fog of a moment when I wasn’t really thinking. These inner sensations are all prodromata indicating that the really serious stuff is on its way. And I know I’m not the only one in this state; my friends tell me they are having similar sensations.

This is the curse of being aware. This blitz-state hyper-anxiety has had a transformative effect on almost everyone I know. And we each have different mechanisms for coping. Some friends of mine are leaving the country. Some heeded the first harbinger and left before it got this bad. Others are cocooning and don’t plan to come out until it is safe. Good people are mentally fencing off what they hope they can control and planning to focus their efforts furtively there. Some are readying to resist. And some are going to stand their ground.

The thing about those dashboard lights is they’re not just a nuisance. They are danger signs, heralds of eminent trouble or potential harm. We ignore them at our peril. To be fair, few folks I know are ignoring them. But some who see them are either bewildered or frozen. After all, what can we do?

I don’t have the answer, even for myself. But I sure have been thinking about it. And trying to prepare.I don’t have the answer, even for myself. But I sure have been thinking about it. And trying to make ready.

My message here is about being aware of the danger signs, the alert signals, the dashboard lights. To paint a big picture, let me tell you about the time my husband and I barely survived a 500-year flood from monsoons that rapidly formed out of a sunny day. We’d been on a research expedition for weeks, completely off-grid, miles from civilization. While exploring a remote desert canyon, we were distracted by the beauty of ancient cliff ruins when clouds began to form. By the time we began the long climb out, it was too late. The ledges and handholds swiftly became slick from rain. Halfway up the ascent, the sky opened and delivered a deluge. We were forced to take shelter in a tiny grotto in the cliff wall, half-filled with an ancient granary. We huddled together for hours in the cold as the downpour turned the powder-dry canyon floor into a whitewater torrent below us, creating a deafening roar. Along the lip of the canyon, trees and great boulders washed over the sides. Sheets of water flooded over the opening of the cave until we couldn’t see out. We were trapped. After a few hours, a lull in the rains and fear of hypothermia convinced us to take a risk. Scrambling over slippery ledges, we clawed our way up and out. The next morning, when the rain stopped, we packed our soaking wet tent and bugged out in the Jeep that we’d left parked on the canyon rim. Sluicing through mud-filled tracks we somehow made it back to civilization.

I’ve got a higher tolerance for risk than most… from my years of adventures in the wild—and as a wildland firefighter. And I’ll even add the years I toured with bands. You prepare. You gear up. And you try to stay frosty. But anyone can get complacent or overwhelmed and miss warning signs. Whether you’re a risk-taker or not, there are times when something important is at stake, so you need to stay alert. Right now, we all do. And we’re going to need one another to help watch and listen for the alarms amidst all the deliberately-created chaos and confusion being blasted from those in control who are poised to do things that will cost us dearly.

I want to back up just a bit and say a little more about that Jeep we had parked on the canyon rim when the 500-year rains came. We named it Rocky. I drove that old car to death’s doorway (both Rocky’s… and mine… more than once). Around the time the odometer rolled over 264K miles, I began to see a slot-machine-like light-show behind the wheel when I started it up. Randomly, the signals hesitated, then went amber, or dimmed, or they stopped glowing once the engine was warm. I fixed problem after problem, nursing Rocky to a ripe old age. It was my steady steed through all those remote research trips in the desert, wildland firefighting, snowy mountain exploits, elk-racing, creek crawling, and even a run-in with a road-running cow. I could tell you some stories about driving that Jeep. The thing is: I cared about it. It served me. I took care of it. I nursed it along and maintained it in the best shape I could, because it had great value to me. I kept it as long as it would still spark to life when the key was turned in the ignition.

This democracy we’ve been rattling around in for 249 years has a lot of red lights blinking on the dashboard. A lot of parts and pieces are under duress, need fixing, might have to be repaired or replaced. Things have gone wrong, it’s not holding up, it needs triage and healing. As you can tell, I’m not ignoring the danger signs, but I happen to believe that it’s still a good ride.

Right after the elections in November, with the oligarchalypse upon us, I wrote a list of things that we all might want to do to prepare, and I sent it out to friends and neighbors. Things like: stock up on coffee, tea, and anything imported in case the threatened tariffs happen. Keep a deep pantry, get all your prescriptions filled, have some cash on hand and keep some assets fluid, just in case. Make sure your tank is full or your car is charged and the tires have good tread. Renew your passport. Learn at least a couple important phone numbers by heart.

Because the threat to our democracy, to our country, to our unity—it’s no longer a blinking light on the dashboard. It’s the skyfalling ruination siren that signals peril to our way of life. And the disaster that is about to befall our country as the billionaires, liars, and greed-driven power mongers prepare to take hold and take all: that’s the deluge. My plan for now is to stay, create, lead—and keep the truth out there. As for you, check your dashboard, honor your instincts, and stay safe. And if you need to climb out… baby, you can drive my car. It’s parked on the rim. And I’m not going anywhere.