“And there are days when I wish I owned nothing, like the grass.” – Mary Oliver
I always have a Decomposition Book I write in and when the fire hit, I had two different ones going, one at home and one at work. On August 25, 2018, I wrote a piece I called Burned House Blues.
Here is an excerpt:
On July 19, 2018, Pamela died. One week later, our house burned down along with 1,078 other homes full of stuff in Redding, California. And ever since I’ve been lost. But don’t tell anyone. I’ve been faking it well. I have an ocean of tears inside me. Occasionally, while driving, I let a few waves wash out of me and a few scattered screams like a tortured seagull might make. People try to understand. People who have their homes. They try to understand what it’s like. I want to tell them it’s okay. If they are lucky, they will never know what I know and that’s a good thing.
When your home dissolves when you’re not there, you are left wondering. What was it like when it died? How long did it take to go away? I picture it screaming sadness and sorrow before the final surreal, silence that would turn our dense, green neighborhood into a sea of dull ashes, a crematorium for houses and trees.
The next day was “the one-month anniversary of the death of our home” and I wrote New Day:
I’m drinking coffee, the ceiling fan is twirling overhead and everywhere I look I see art… all the paintings and prints we grabbed and stashed in our cars leaning up against the walls of our rented home. Why hang them? Why should they be normal or look normal? Let them reflect the disordered reality of our disheveled life.
On August 31, I wrote The Invisible World, a reference to a Rumi quote: “You must set fire to have light. Trust means you’re ready to risk what you currently have. Work in the invisible world at least as hard as you do in the visible.”
Here is an excerpt:
The rest of my life will be marked by fire, by what it burned and the hole it left in my life and soul, the lost feeling that colors every thought and breath, the deadness that permeates and perfumes my gaze and considerations. The invisible world is bored with my self-pity and pain. Enough it whispers. Knit the broken places or shed them like old skin. Be still and notice nothing has changed. Am I not still here breathing?
That day I again quoted Rumi: “You’ve been stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender.”
And I wrote Behold the Silence:
I knock at the door and ask for words. Just a few to fill this page. Some special ones filled with generosity and surprise, the other side of dark coins, that unfold like wings and fall into the sky as easy as rising smoke and ash. We met with Terrence today and imagined the garage, all the vanishings alive again, so we could give it value. Will money cure this pain? It’s all we have left now to make us whole. Fire, like a thief, liquidated our assets with its vaporizing breath, reducing the material majesty of our trusted life to sand and dirt. There is love in me, I know, and hope and healing; the spirits of my mother and others who love me wonder if I’ll pass this test. How can I find my way out of the maze when it’s burned and charred? I think I’ll just sit here and write and listen to music. Damn the rest. Behold the silence of now.
On the first of September I quoted Rumi: “Everyone chooses a suffering that will change him or her to a well-baked loaf.”
And I wrote From the Island:
It is morning. I’m standing at our new island on Heather Ridge. Flies swarm outside the door. The smell of smoke drifted back in the night, forcing Nancy to wear her mask so she can breathe. I have hope. Not a lot. Not a little. It’s a growing thing that I coax to come near and teach me what she knows. Nancy’s making breakfast, our daily omelet of love. My mind flits about like those flies, fretting and fearful while something deeper than love holds me patiently, perfectly and purely, trusting me, even while I abandon and betray myself with doubt and shame. Coffee and scone, a freshly potted plant stand on this island with me. It’s a new beginning. My whole life starts fresh. The dead ones are here. My mother. Pamela. I think them here. Invite them to come, write them into this poem forever, or until the next fire. I am love. I am truth. I am the one. You are too. From far away, something sweet comes near. Now.
In Drifting, I wrote:
Time keeps moving and I follow and seek an answer or two. I don’t know. That is the problem. And so I drift. I built a life and someone decided I should start over. Be patient, I tell me. Don’t complain. Don’t resist. Follow the breath in and out. Notice and allow the barking dog. The flies. The smoke. Life in the slow, dead time of here.
I wrote Ashes on September 14:
No moment lasts. It just is. For that moment. And then it isn’t, replaced by a new moment that is and then isn’t, and so on. Nothing lasts. Today I visited the ashes and watched my convictions and beliefs dissolve in the dust and debris that used to be our home.
Nothing lasts and nothing matters. We cling to any of it at our peril. I am supremely happy now. I’ve decided we are not rebuilding. Why? It is so obvious. We’ll find a house and buy it and be done. Everything seems so simple now. Everything I was attached to is gone and I am free. What a blessing. The world is forcing me to change. And I am cooperating. I have no idea what is next, except, we’ll buy a house and let the ashes have our past.
Two days later I wrote No Fear:
The old life is gone and it’s a gift to have it all disappear. Those who have not lost it all cannot understand what I mean. When you lose everything, you lose the fear of losing everything. There is the blessing. All the fear is gone.
On the 29th of September I wrote Give-and-Take:
Our house burned down two months and three days ago, dissolved into ashes that were carefully collected and removed, leaving the three cypress trees, tall, burned and dead, bearing witness to change.
And today, Jody texted they accepted our offer on our next home, already furnished, so we can step into someone else’s life and make it ours. They call it give-and-take, not necessarily in that order. We woke up one day with news that a fire wanted our home and there was nothing we could do but fill our cars with what we guessed we’d care about later. And now a new house with a view of the river and burned matchstick trees on the ridge and clean, empty lots where the houses used to be on the other side. The changes keep coming. Yesterday, a fist in the face. Today, a kiss on the lips. Both the same.
That same day I quoted William Stafford: “If you survive, you can tell about things: the sky that never made any promises anyway, and our tornado that made enough instant rubble to last the rest of your life. Those who complain, they are alive.”
Here is, The Secret:
I don’t remember choosing this life, but I’m pretty sure I did. I just want to know why. Somehow, I imagine that would help. Today I woke up thinking maybe the worst is over. Life is a series of choreographed assaults, followed by periods of redemptive relief before the next assault begins. Today feels like an interglacial, a lull between the mountains of misery that I ordered for the sake of my soul and its need to grow.
If you survive, you come out of it more whole and deeper somehow. There’s more light. More truth and less longing. I find myself not wanting much and accepting what comes, no longer afraid of fire or death or loss. It all burned and we live on, remarkable, alert, knowing things that the fortunate ones, those with unburned homes do not know: the secret, like silence, like snow, this calm feeling inside.