The Illusion of Safety
The view down my driveway, where the trees used to twist across the driveway and our friends danced to the band under the stars.
I considered writing a blog on what not to say to disaster survivors but decided that I couldn’t do such a thing. I do not speak for all of those who have lost their homes, possessions, and pets to a natural disaster. There’s no way I could speak for all of us, for we each process trauma differently. Early on, I posted a blog about the way PG&E was raping our land by taking advantage of the disaster to remove the pesky trees they no longer felt like trimming each year, essentially clearcutting an already damaged and vulnerable terrain. The parallel between the way society treats the land and the way we treat women’s bodies is not a novel concept. There are volumes of feminist and ecological literature in this vein. In the weeks that followed, I received many messages from women telling me how healing and powerful it was to read my essay. Except for one woman, who told me in no uncertain terms that I was to never, ever use the term rape about anything other than the rape of a human body. That by doing so, I was harming every single man, woman, and child who had been raped. I felt the truth in her words and yet at least three other rape survivors had sent me messages of healing. What dawned on me in that moment was that we all deal with the pain in our lives on our own terms and I can’t speak for all wildfire survivors any more than this one reader could speak for all rape survivors, since so many others had responded in the opposite manner. Different things trigger different people. Some of my wildfire friends fear candles now while others are sitting next to bonfires. Some of us are jumping to get back up to the mountain while others refuse to ever set foot up there again. Thus, it’s wrong to make a list of do’s and don’ts in this case, for what I need right now may not be what my neighbor needs.
That said, right after the fire a lot of people would say, “At least you and your family are safe” or because I lost so many pets, they’d say, “At least the people are safe” and it drove me crazy. I know it was their way of letting me know that if I’d died, things would be worse, but really, worse for whom? I’d be dead and while I can’t say for sure what happens after that, I bet it’s a lot less work than trying to rebuild a life from ashes. Your own life doesn’t feel like much of a consolation prize when you’re trying to find a place to live and navigate the complex insurance, zoning, and financial processes of the disaster aftermath. Besides, being safe and feeling safe are completely different things.
I’ve only had two fire dreams since I lost my home. The first was about a month after—I dreamt I was on the beach, the ocean raging behind me. Above me, crawling along the dunes like a dragon, came a wall of flame. It hurtled toward the sea, covering every inch of the beach. I had to choose; go into the ocean where I was sure to drown or die in the flames.
I chose to burn to death and woke up gasping.
The second dream was about three months later. In this dream, I was in the industrial part of a town set at the base of a beautiful, forest mountain. I was playing tag in a parking lot with a bunch of my former students and my sister was at the front desk. In the distance, I saw plumes of smoke rising from the mountain. I ran to get the kids and told my sister we needed to get out. As we turned down each street, we were met by flames. I couldn’t find a way out that was safe and woke up yet again gasping.
Nightmares are common for those who have experienced trauma. I imagine there are many ways to interpret these dreams, but on the surface, I think the first one is my psyche’s way of letting me know that part of me would have rather died in the fire than deal with the ocean of uncertainty in front of me. That sounds dramatic, but one month out after the fire, I was swimming in a sea of fear and pain and frustration. As for the second dream, it shows I still don’t feel safe. Moreover, I’m not sure I could return to the mountain with my kids if they were little. The children in my dream were thirteen or younger, a significant age, since I’d be responsible for evacuating them. I evacuated my nineteen year old son, but by the time we live up there again, he’ll be closer to twenty-two. A man. Not someone I have to save and until then, he’s safe in his apartment in Philly.
Or is he? The fires broke out while my husband was dropping the eldest off at college. My son lost his house while he was gone and while I know it’s still hard on him to have everything disappear like that, in those first weeks I was so glad he was the safe one, far away from fires and smoke and pain. However, by Labor Day, a few weeks after his own home burned in CA, my son was on evacuation alert as fires raged through the southern suburbs of Portland, OR. Fortunately, he never got close to being in danger, but for two days, as his air quality became so bad he couldn’t go out of the apartment, and the firefighters worked around the clock to get it under control, I felt adrift and out of my body. How in the world could the son who was 800 miles away, the one who was safe, be in danger?
But Philadelphia, that’s got to be safe, right? Far from wildfire and drought. No hurricanes or tornadoes. It has to be the safest place from disaster. That’s what I thought as I moved my younger son into his apartment later that month. I was so happy for him, for while I’m struggling to figure out home for the next few years, he’ll have his cool apartment in the city with his buddies to keep him distracted from the trauma he’d just experienced. On move in day, the boys and one of the dad’s decided to go shopping. There wasn’t room for me in the car, so I stayed behind and did the laundry while unpacking Michael’s stuff. About thirty minutes of being alone for the first time since the fires, the alarm went off in the 14 story building. I was on the 14th floor, of course, and while couldn’t smell smoke, the alarm startled me so terribly, I fell to the floor as my legs gave out (something that’s happened several times since August 20, 2020). The voice on the loudspeaker kept repeating, “There is an emergency in your building. Please remain in your room until further notice. Do not use the elevators nor the stairs until told.”
My mind went blank as I left my body. When I came to, I was crawling on all fours, trying to find a place to hide, imagining I was my poor goats when they died, not knowing from which side the flames would come, hearing the roar of the fire, waiting to be set unto flame, unable to escape.
The alarm stopped as suddenly as it started. Of course it was a prankster on move-in day. But to my traumatized body and soul, it was an out-of-body experience that reminded me of the suffering that had happened on that mountain and could happen right there in Philadelphia. No, my son isn’t safer there, for in reality, life on earth isn’t safe.
We can create safe spaces, but we can’t keep danger out of them. We can create fire resilient houses, but if a firestorm comes raging up the San Vicente canyon where I live, nothing will stop it. Whatever we build there, we must be willing to lose, if not to the flame, then to the storms or earthquakes that come with life on this part of planet Earth. Why then, would we ever consider rebuilding? Why not leave this place for safer pastures?
I’ve learned that there is no safe place. It’s an illusion to think otherwise. From tornadoes to volcanoes to hurricanes to wildfires to tsunamis, Earth is a wild place. Beyond that there are viruses and bacteria as well as other diseases due to our lifestyles that will kill us. Beyond that we have human violence. Beyond that we have accidents and old age. Material life is designed to end, whether it be fire or a stroke, and there’s nothing we can do about it. In some ways, this brings me joy and a profound peace, for it’s a reminder of the preciousness of life as well. Without death, life would have no meaning. Living on the mountain again may put me closer to death, but death is always only a breath away no matter what I do.
Moreover, I love this land. I have promised not to abandon it. Yet love of the trees or rivers or the oceans isn’t the only reason we should care for the land and heal it as it requires. Love of the land is only part of the equation. I think the path to a more sustainable future also requires a love of community. A love for the people that surround you. There is more to Santa Cruz than three acres that somehow stole my heart. The people we’ve met have enchanted us as well and to leave them, even if we could find safer pastures, would be impossible. For here we have met incredible people and they are the reason we’re willing to meet the challenges required of us at this time.
The community is where I’m finding strength, resources, and ideas. I could have two houses in forty-eight other states, but Santa Cruz is my home, simply because the people here are some of the best folks I’ve ever met. This isn’t a safe place, but it’s our place, and that’s good enough.