Two Red Doors
The houses that sheltered us since the 2020 CZU Lightning fire took our home
“There is a brokenness out of which comes the unbroken
A shatteredness out of which blooms the unshatterable
There is sorrow beyond all grief which leads to joy,
And a fragility out of whose depths emerges strength.”
~Rashani
Yesterday, after a long day deep cleaning the rental in Capitola-by-the-sea, I made my way back home to Bonny Doon. Nearly two years after the fires that took everything we owned; we were finally returning to the land of our hearts. As I got off the exit in Scotts Valley however, the sky turned a nasty gray, and the smell of smoke filled the air. This was NOT the fog I’d grown used to in Capitola. My stomach did a little twirl. At the stoplight, I texted my son who was already home in the Doon and asked him if it was smoky there. It wasn’t but he got on CalFire’s Twitter page and discovered that there was a fire, just in the next town over.
Inhaling deeply, I caught another whiff of the smoke and continued up the hill, reminded yet again that what was once my refuge is now a place on the edge—dry, unbearably hot in the summer, and utterly vulnerable to fire, whether man made or not.
On our first afternoon home, my husband and I sat under the umbrellas in the garden talking about how much was collapsing around us economically, socially, and environmentally. He said that it was his hope that our land in Bonny Doon would be our place of refuge and safety, and I had to hide my tears. This place will never feel safe again, at least, it isn’t yet for me. I told him so. I can’t hide the emotions still swirling within me. He wasn’t there the night I evacuated. He didn’t see the flaming leaves, the ash falling from the sky. He didn’t usher the child and dogs out under a blanket of smoke so thick, I couldn’t see the driveway clearly. He didn’t see the glow of the goat’s eyes through the barn window as I left him behind to die. Going to bed after a day of unpacking boxes, I realized that there’s much about the evacuation I haven’t processed and moving home has shaken up some memories I’ve tried to forget.
I love this land, but my homecoming isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Of course, there’s the work of moving out of one place and into a new home, plus furnishing everything and getting insurance to pay. That part is always hard, and as I leave my second rental in less than two years, I feel for the renters who must do so on a regular basis. I’m grateful for the two homes that have sheltered me since I lost the house that burned, they’ve taught me so much about shelter and its purpose both physically and emotionally. One of the greatest blessings of Homeowner’s Insurance is what’s called the Loss of Use, or LOU, part of the policy. Knowing that you’ll have a place to rest your head while trying to figure out your life after a total loss is the difference between being a climate refugee and a climate survivor. It keeps people in the community as they navigate the minute details of rebuilding. In our case, it allowed us to live in two quite different towns, both of which I’d loved to visit before the fire. The first was Los Gatos, a quaint little Silicon Valley outpost inland from Santa Cruz. There, we lived in a house built before cars with a little red door, just steps from the downtown area. I allowed the fine food and fashion of Los Gatos to soothe my spirit as I began my recovery process.
About halfway through that rental, I got the idea that our next home should be back in the Santa Cruz area and close to the ocean. I began looking into beach rentals and found the perfect spot near Capitola Village. While the food and fashion here aren’t as noteworthy, the sea is what made this the perfect second landing place. Our little blue house, also with a red door, was walking distance to the beach and every day I walked my dogs along the cliffs, sand, and the creek; allowing the water to heal my fire-fried soul. I felt my nervous system re-wire every time I set my eyes upon the undulating waves. There’s nothing that salt water can’t heal.
According to lore, a red door means “welcome.” In an old American tradition, if a family had a red front door, tired travelers knew the home was a welcoming place to rest and they would be able to spend the night there. A red door provides protection. This was true for both homes that have graciously housed us these past two years. I’ll never forget that first night in the Los Gatos home, having finally landed after hotels and sleeping at a friend’s house. My husband and I were there with our younger son, and while it totally sucked to have been in that situation, we all agreed the house was holding us. It wanted to care for us in our time of need. The beach house has been the same, only this time it was our older son who lived here with us. He thinks that deciding to live in Capitola this past year was my best idea in a decade (his words, not mine).
After two years of planning and re-planning and tons of work, we’re finally home in the Doon, and on the one hand, I feel a great relief. Both rental homes have been lovely, but about a month ago it dawned on me that I’ve felt on vacation the past two years, and I just wanted to return to my bed under the trees. However, I’m not going home to the bed under the trees that I long for. For one thing, the trees are gone and it’s now so hot you can’t do anything in the afternoon but try to stay cool in the tiny homes while blasting the mini-split AC. However, it is my bed and I love the tiny home village we’ve created. Sure, there are some annoyances, but I’ll save that for another essay. Overall, these homes are nicer than the one we lost, and I like the plan we have. I love my comfy bed and I’m grateful for my own home again. Keeping someone else’s furniture clean when you own a bulldog is a pain in the ass and my style never matched the cheap hotel look of the rental furniture of the first house, nor the cheesy nautical thing the beach house had going for it. More than anything, I look forward to planting an apiary, orchards, and a vineyard with my newly retired husband.
Yet…
Returning home after an eco-disaster isn’t all joy, at least not for me. The busyness of the past two years, combined with the adorable red-doored houses that have cared for me, has allowed me to ignore deep grief and pain that only upon living on the land again can I truly feel, for now, I can’t escape it. My sleep has been restless since the last tiny home arrived, and I’ve been fighting off a bout of shingles. My body is telling me something isn’t right. I’m prepared for everything we’ve built to burn again; nothing will be left on the mountain that is too precious to lose. So, I’m not afraid of another fire, yet the smell of that smoke as I drove home yesterday, as well as the quiet, empty neighborhood, brings me back to the night we fled. Before that dark night, I’d always assumed CalFire would protect my house in a fire. That they wouldn’t let it burn. I’d also always assumed they’d evacuate us with plenty of warning. Neither assumption is true anymore, and that is unsettling.
My cousin and his family were at the 4th of July parade in Highland Park last week when a broken man-boy with a military grade weapon preyed upon the people of his hometown. My cousin managed to get his son and wife under a park bench and survived the attack, but they will never be the same. When I was chatting with him, I realized that the work going forward isn’t to get over these traumatic events. Instead, the best we can do is learn how to still find joy while knowing a very horrible truth about the world. In his case, he knows first-hand the pain and fear of our societal collapse. He knows that nowhere is truly safe because America is not of sound mind. We’ve created a monster, both in our young men, and in our political body that refuses to act in the face of evil. My cousin knows this, and he can never forget it.
In my case, I know that the West is burning. That there isn’t enough water for all who want to live under the golden California sun and while our tent cities grow our aquifers are drying up, and all it takes a spark for everything to go up in flames. I know that my state will let neighborhoods burn, because they’re unprepared for this ecological collapse, and I can no longer trust they will get me out in enough time. We’re not sure how long after we fled that our home burned, but my son claims that he would most certainly be dead had I not been there to get him out in the middle of the night. I was supposed to be out of town with my husband that fateful weekend, but instead stayed behind. He’s probably right, the chances were high that he’d have slept in until 2 pm the next day, and things were burning in the vicinity then. We both know this, and we can never forget it.
Coming home has me feeling like two people. One Nicole who is so happy and excited about the work she’s accomplished. She can’t wait to get her hands in the dirt and co-create with the land and her husband. Yet some other Nicole lives within me now as well, and she’s not sure about the whole thing. That part of me is still fleeing with her son in the middle of the night, scared and alone and leaving behind many precious things. With time, she will learn to find joy in the dirt, birdsong, the flowers, and the bees, right alongside of me. I’ll know when she’s okay because my body will relax, and I won’t feel this constant churning in my stomach. The day will come, but it is not this day. This day, I’m grateful for the return and pleased with all the work we’ve done. Yet, I’m letting myself finally process the loss, and more specifically the evacuation. That is the work for now and I have faith the land will teach me how to learn to find the balance between joy and loss.