White flakes fall from the sky, inviting a sense of wonder. Looking
more closely, I see these would-be snow crystals are more like torn pieces of
paper. I shudder as one lands on my hand. They are ash from the fires burning
too close to my town, to the haven of my home.
I can feel a rising
tightness squeeze my stomach. I swallow the sour bile, gurgling at the base of
my esophagus.
With a deep breath, I try to keep myself practical and
start to pack because there could be an evacuation. Instead, I am drawn to sew
small gift bags out of Japanese silk someone has given me. I find myself raking
out the dead fruit beneath the trees alongside my driveway, then collecting
them in a pile before dumping into the compost bin.
My hands shake. I
can't seem to make any decision about what I want to take with me. I vacillate
between grabbing my purse and personal/business folders for myself and my mom
or packing mementoes and valuables as if I will never see my home again. If I
proceed with choosing items I want with me forever then I face the possible
devastating reality about leaving my home. So many have lost everything already!
How do I know I may not be one of them?
With fear hounding my heart, I fall into a well-practiced
pattern of self-soothing behavior by putting things in my mouth: a peanut, bite
of Apple, chocolate square, water, coffee, tea. I can at least be proud I’m not
chewing my fingernails to their quicks as I did when I was a youngster. I’m not
stuffing a cigarette into my mouth as I did when I was a young adult, or
sneaking a drink like when I was a teenager or pouring milk over my straight
shot of bourbon when I was a divorcee.
The fires have come on us fast. So rapidly, in fact, there
is a level of energetic hysteria vibrating through the streets. Motor homes and
RVs, trailers and campers, are parked behind their matching trucks and sit in
parking lots. We are readying ourselves for a mass exodus that no one really
wants. Our lives are on hold, freezing our fear of impending doom into tears or
anger or restlessness. We are here, ‘ready alert’ until there is no more danger
and we can ‘stand down.’ When that will happen, we have no clue. The
firefighters, over 400 strong, are stretched across four counties and 14 or
more fires rapidly merging their mighty flames into blackening destruction
across world-renown vineyards and gardens, ranches and towns.
I pack all day and
turn to see so much of myself still on the walls. The newly-made couch pillows
that are color-coded to satisfy a Feng Shui design, my re-arranged art hangings
of my many friends and late husband who will create no more.
Mementoes and keep sakes, family heirlooms and thrift store
buys. Everything that says ‘me’ right now. There is no time for my son to come
pick them up. The legacy of our family could be lost just as many others have had
theirs go up in flames or destroyed recently by flooding, hurricanes, and
earthquakes.
Maybe we're supposed to give up our past thoughts,
identities, and prejudices, our dreams and burdens, and step forward into
something new. A new attitude, a new regime, a new way of civilization. I want
to cling to all of my past, but there is no room in the car.
So, I wait to see
what is my future, a little perplexed at my choices: the training manuals for
Reiki classes, the three ring binders with all the details to finish writing
The Sacred Bundle Series, warm clothes, the new propane camp stove, bag of my
mom's bills and investments, mine too, water, a knitting project. A few pictures,
my computer, and the special suitcases with sacred items for prayer and
ceremony sit by the door to grab on my way out.
I feel as if I’m standing on a bridge between
yesterday and tomorrow, waiting
for the cosmos to decide if I’m either to cross into a new life or return to my
old one with a different perspective.
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