A Turning of the Page

Angel of Renewal by Claudia Lenart. https://www.etsy.com/shop/ClaudiaMarieFelt

One year ago, I wrote my first essay about the wildfire. Part update for those who loved me, part journaling for myself, I described that first week of fleeing, drifting through a few shelters, and then settling into the house in Los Gatos. It felt so cathartic to write about it, I decided to continue documenting my experience for the first year. Words are how I heal. Words are how I weave the world around me. Many say I talk too much, that I need to get to the point, but I love words so much, I must bond with them to live. I’ve written over 70,000 words in my journal since last year. When I think other wildfire folk might appreciate from my words, or friends might be interested in the journey, I’ve shared them on my blog, but most of the essays written were for me. The intent was to heal, but words have power, and as I re-read the past year, I see themes emerging. Important messages from the land, the trees, the animals I lost, and the Earth herself at this moment in time. Themes I must unravel and weave together to form my own journey from here on out.

A friend of mine revealed that she felt kicked-off the mountain last year. To some extent we all feel this way. Without our permission, the fire swept us from the land we loved dearly. It hurts, not only because we’ve lost something, but deep down, we know this is Earth’s way of balancing us. Scattering us to other places. We’ve settled and developed in a way that has destroyed her systems and she can no longer abide. Floods in North Carolina, fires in the west, a tropical storm landing in Connecticut, all in one week. Never mind the drought and the pandemic. We know she’s telling us to rethink and fast. She’s not slaughtering us the way PG&E does to the trees after a forest fire, but she is demanding new ways of looking at energy, infrastructure, agriculture, family, community, and shelter because the planet’s own ways of processing our filth are off kilter.

Losing my home and all my worldly belongings so violently has been a rollercoaster, but perhaps the mot daunting part is also the most thrilling—the endless uncertainty that lies before me is also a sphere of potentials where every point on that sphere is a possibility. I feel connected to the entire web of life, pulsating in all directions, like waves of dreams and desires, ebbing and flowing through my soul. Yes, life is changing, but all of the best changes in my life came from out of the blue. I imagine I always knew they were there, like fireflies flitting in and out of the night sky, sometimes I’d see my future and then it would vanish. The path was hidden, but the event came to pass never-the-less. I’ve never believed in soothsaying, the future is too grand. Anyone who says X will happen to you is like a horse with blinders on. There are too many plot points that life can take. Sometimes the energy is stronger in one direction, like the fire that destroyed our mountain, but then the wind changes and a different course comes to be. A choice is made and a new path illuminates, but this means some other destination has disappeared into the night sky, sometimes never to be seen again.

The first year after a total loss of home, land, and belongings for any reason—fire, flood, earthquake, etc.—is daunting. At this moment though, I feel as though a chapter has come to an end. I know what I lost and I know it won’t return. I look for what’s coming and each day am delighted by the newness of this life. I’m still incredibly uncertain, but that uncertainty no longer causes my mind to run like a hamster in an endless wheel in the middle of the night. Instead, I feel more like a child on Christmas morning—what’s this under the tree? Even if its something lame, like scratchy wool sweater (dealing with the insurance company) or an encyclopedia (dealing with building codes and laws), there’s often the big gift, like the ten-speed bike I got when I was nine, or a new pair of skis, or a gift certificate to my favorite shoe store, under the tree as well. I don’t get to pick and choose what Santa brings me anymore than I can pick and choose what life throws at me and for some reason, it all feels more comfortable than it did even a few weeks ago.

There’s a deep sense of helplessness when you lose your home suddenly to eco-disaster. Many of the rights you’re used to as a landowner are gone if you don’t actually inhabit the land. Various officials and organizations will walk all over you and your property, in the name of safety, without your permission. I’ve been demanding that Davy Tree call first for permission to enter my land and just yesterday found the ominous bright green marks of death on a few of my trees. Yet again, they have violated me. Begging the county to allow me to live in my tiny home and repair the infrastructure that had been sustaining humans on that land for decades is also quite vulnerable. Who are they to say whether or not I can return to the place I already inhabited? Insurance requiring me to prove my intentions at every turn, while making it difficult to get my money from them as I replace things, feels like a slap in the face. Contractors canceling, supplies on back order, and delayed deliveries make even the simplest plans feel like a chore.

I don’t wish this on anyone. However the other day when the county demanded all sorts of paperwork to grant me my temp permit at the same moment the latest electrician texted me to say he had to push out the job and my latest insurance adjuster told me for the tenth time he still hadn’t gotten my personal property reimbursement approved, even though he’s been working on it for six weeks, I realized that the biggest reason this all hurts is because I take it personally. I hate being deceived or screwed over because it makes me feel insignificant and powerless, like a child. Thing is, the entire world is set up to treat us like children and it’s only gotten worse. The only power I have is to not take it personally, the rest is completely out of my hands.

When my husband’s grandmother, Audrey, turned 100, I asked her what her secret was for long life. She said to never take anything personally. People will do as they do, which is not a reflection of me at all. Am I powerless? Hell yes, way more powerless than I’d ever understood. My personal insignificance on the world stage has been obvious for a while, but when it comes to the systems that surround me within my community I’m entirely meaningless. These entities will continue to destroy, demand, and test the limits of my patience and the only power I have is to decide that it isn’t personal. It’s like the Vogons really did arrive on Earth when Douglas Adams wrote the Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and no one can win in the face of important checklists and bureaucracy. It is a force beyond any one of us.

I have a friend named Claudia who is also a talented artist. I met her when our children were little at the Waldorf school in Wauconda. Back then, she enjoyed the needle felting projects we did with the children and little by little began to explore this interest. I watched her grow into one of the finest designers in the medium, some of her creations are even on TV. She visited Big Trees cabin years ago with her sister, son, and nephew and after, I asked her to create a fairy to represent the forest we lived in. A few years after that, I commissioned her to do make a goddess for each season that I could put on my nature table. I lost all of them in the fire. The other day, on the one year anniversary of losing my home and pets, a beautiful angel arrived in the post from Claudia. An angel of renewal, with bees in her hair, blossoms at her feet, and a young redwood by her side. Claudia has been reading my essays, which alone is a gift beyond measure, but her interest and attention are reflected in this magnificent piece. I am humbled as well as inspired. This is the angel to guide me as I enter act two.

I’m turning the page of the next chapter—the second year. A year in which I hope to have a hot tub to soak under the stars and a place to write on my land again. A year of soil renewal and dedicating the land to the wildlife and the planet. A year of building an apiary and a carbon sequestration project all in one. A year of listening to the plants, animals, wind, and hopefully rains. A year of living by the sea and allowing Mother Ocean to heal my wounds. A year of watching and waiting and following the call when I hear it. Yes, I have a plan, I call it “A Bedroom with the Bees” but I sense it’s the starting point of a journey toward many different possibilities that I cannot yet imagine. This is a time of creation where my thoughts and intentions will be of the utmost importance. What do I pour into the vacuum before me? Where is this going and what do I want to follow?

It was Rumi who wrote, “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” I open my heart to the forms taking shape, the life that wants to enter, the return of the things lost. May I be awake enough to recognized them in whatever package they might be wrapped in.