A grey haze dulls the details of the
massive cedar, tall and visible above the shed which cozies next to the
property line at the back of my rented bungalow. If I keep my eyes focused on
this tree, my eyes will burn trying to define the spray of aromatic needles on
its upturned branches. And, of course, they also sting from the smoke hovering
in the air.
Instead, I concentrate on the details of
the wine barrel teeming with serrated strawberry leaves and its determined outreach
toward fertile soil to implant its roots. I have to cut those tendrils off or train
them back into the tub or plant them in separate containers. I’ve never been
able to throw them away without remorse, so I have small pots of strawberry plants
everywhere. I am also trying to figure why I don’t have any red berries, only
lush green leaves, as a reward for my efforts.
Bringing my attention into closer focus, I
am pleased to be at my salvaged sitting area. A metal table and two chairs are
revived with sanding, Rustoleum, paint and varnish. I’ve always wanted a corner
in my garden for an eating area or a place to write outside. Now I’ve created
that space and none too soon.
The fires causing the thick-smelling air
have been burning for weeks and, hopefully, will be under control by September
1st. Smaller fires have been battled and contained either in town or
up the hill in the forested housing development. After last year’s scare when
the threat to my valley and town came so close to being real, this year’s nearby
blaze has brought me similar anxieties.
If the wind blows too long or the day
reaches past a survivable temperature, I am on edge. When the sirens shriek in
the day or night, I am awake and anxious.
I’ve packed and unpacked my car several
times. Somewhere in my head I hold a belief that if I am ready, it will never
happen. The ‘it’ being evacuation; the bigger “IT” being the loss of my way of
life, my security, my comfort.
This very sense of potential tragedy paralyzed
me for the first weeks of living near the growth of the largest wild fire in
California history,
Then I rebelled. I didn’t want to live
under waves of fear. I want life to flow atop waves of possibility and hope. If
any of my dreams had any possibility of becoming true, I decided, then I needed
to work at them. Even if I lost them in the nightmare of a fire’s destruction.
So, I set up the outdoor work bench and
began sanding the underbelly of the round metal table and the two chairs. The
local hardware store re-mixed my one-year old paint. In the past two weeks, I
have completed one of my promised projects. I also planted medicinal plants in
pots, put fish emulsion around all the veggie and berry plants, strengthened
the drip watering system, and trimmed shaggy bushes.
I brought my focus home and into my own
back yard, leaving the foggy future somewhere beyond my here and now. Looking
closely, I actually see a dangling baby strawberry. Tomatoes are ripening as
are eggplants. Asters are in bloom and lemon cukes are forming.
A siren crosses the threshold into my
corner of peace then fades into somewhere else. For this moment, I am here, and
I am ok.
