destruction

“Fire is a double edged sword. It can give us warmth and cook our food, but it can also burn us.”

I have  a complicated relationship with fire and by that I mean I love it. Maybe a little too much. 

Since I was born an Aries, which is a fire sign, that really shouldn’t come as any surprise, but recently— like this week—our relationship had been tested. I have to admit that it’s strained and like any other relationship that is fraught with turmoil, I guess you could file it under the heading of a love/hate sort of thing.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a thing for fire. From Girl Scout campfires that imprinted me with happy childhood memories tied to the smell of burnt hickory in my hair and gooey, marshmallow-chocolately graham cracker goodness, to warm, cozy, afternoons reading instead of skiing because—why not? 

It has always held me under its spell; a mesmerizing force of nature that can purify or destroy, cleanse or choke with its smoke, and perform its own special brand of alchemy by reducing the solid to ashes. 

As an Aries, I may have been known to maniacally stoke the “Witches” bonfires that my tribe and I gather around whenever we’re together. Under that spell, I stand a little too close, blindly feeding its ravenous flames with twigs and sticks for hours at a time. Oddly impervious to the smoke, my eyes don’t burn, and I feed the flames with the same single-minded love and devotion I usually reserve for truffle almonds and my BFF. 

All I’m saying is, I’m weird you guys. 

By design, I have three fireplaces at my house and I if I had my druthers, or if I lived in Sweden or Buffalo New York, a fire would roar happily 24/7. But I don’t, I live in freaking Southern California so I can only light them MAYBE ten days a year. 

I also have a thing for candles and staring into their flames as a form of meditation. Like I said, I find fire mesmerizing. 

So, you can imagine my conflicted confusion when giant wildfires broke out in California on Thursday. I sat glued to the news reports, staring at the flames, but this time it wasn’t due to my fascination with all things hot and fiery—it was because one of them was a little too close to home. It was licking at the doorstep of a neighborhood I know well. My sister’s to be exact. It was threatening the warm and homey haven where she’s raised her kids. We’ve held family Christmas festivities there every year for as long as I can remember. She’s hosted birthday barbecues, post funeral gatherings, anniversary parties, and taco night. And it was where we all gathered and sat in a stupor the day after our dad died. 

It’s our family “go to” hang out.

And to add a bit of insult to injury—after fifteen years she just remodeled her kitchen, and it’s so beautiful it would make Martha Stewart weep with envy.

But let’s get real here. My heart aches as I write this. These fires have been relentless in their destruction. Animals were killed and people have died. And THAT is unforgivable.

I have come to the realization that fire is a dangerous obsession. It shows up without knocking, sucks all the oxygen out of the room, and it can burn you and the things you love to ash in an instant. I suppose I knew that on a subconscious level but now that I’ve witnessed its handiwork up close, this has become very personal to me. 

In the end my sister’s home was saved. Thank God for all of the extraordinarily courageous fire fighters. They are a very special breed of human being. They are the ones who run toward the flames as we run away and I cannot stress our gratitude strongly enough.

I remember hearing once that most firefighters also have a real fascination with fire. They too are mesmerized by its mysterious flames; its amber glow. But they’ve also borne witness to the destructive nature of this untamed beast. Its impulsivity, and unpredictability. The lives it takes so indiscriminately. The forests, homes and businesses it devours without rhyme or reason. The lives it takes. The lives it ruins.

So, their fascination is tempered by a healthy respect. 

Not me. I feel burned.  I feel sick for all of the people who have lost so much. I’m pissed. This feels personal. Maybe I’ll get there. Just not there yet.

Please, if you get a second, send California some love. We could use it. And if you have a fire story, feel free to share it here. Believe it or not it helps to vent.

Carry on,
xox

I wrote about this a long time ago, but I’m going to tell it again.
Partly because there are so many new readers, and also because its come up a lot lately—and besides, it’s a fuckin’ great story.

If you’ve heard it before, go make yourself a sandwich. And don’t give away the ending.

In the spring of 2010 I went to Hawaii with my friend Wes to get some clarity about which direction I should take my life after Atik (my store) died.

Oh who am I kidding. We went to drink Mai Tais, eat like escaped death row convicts, sit on the white sands of Waikiki Beach all day gossiping and people watching—and get massages.

All we did was laugh. Well, he laughed, I cried—then he laughed at my crying. Then I cry-laughed. It was wet and sloppy. Lots of running mascara and snot-bubbles.
You get the picture.

About mid-way through our seven-day trip I got the sense there was going to be a tsunami.
You know—like you do…
That evening when Wes met me at the bar for happy hour I voiced my concern. “I want to move to a higher room in our hotel. I think there’s going to be a tsunami and I’m not going to be safe on the second floor.”

“Did you start without me? How many drinks have you had?” he was laughing, flagging down a waiter in order to join this crazy party he figured I’d already started.
“I’m serious. You’re on the third floor, but I’m not even sure that’s high enough. Let’s look into moving.”
All I could see in my mind’s eye were those horrible videos from the tsunami in Thailand.

His eyes said: Have you lost your mind? But in order to calm my fears he immediately whipped out his phone and started to look up Hawaiian tsunami.

“The earliest on record was reported in 1813 or 1814 — and the worst occurred in Hilo in 1946, killing 173 people.” he was reading a Wikipedia page.
“So it happens kind-of-never; and I’m okay with those odds.” He raised his drink for a toast “To surviving that rarest of all disasters—the Hawaiian tsunami” We clinked glasses as he shook his head laughing at my continued squirminess.

“But if it does happen, which it could, ‘cause you’re pretty spooky that way— it will be one hell of a story”.

The first week of March the following year, 2011, our great friends, the ones who ride the world with us on motorcycles, asked if we wanted to join them at their condo in Maui. I was printing our boarding passes before I hung up the phone; you don’t have to ask me twice to drop everything and go to Hawaii.

On the beautiful drive from the airport to Lahaina, the air was warm and thick with just a hint of the fragrance of rain as we wove our way in and out of the clouds that play peek-a-boo with the sun all day on the Hawaiian Islands. With a view of the lush green mountains formed from the ever-present volcanos to the right, and the deep blue Pacific churning wildly to our left, that place really felt like Paradise Lost.

That’s when it hit me. I turned down the radio of the rental car that was blaring some five-year old, Top Forty song.
“We’re going to have a tsunami.” I announced.
It didn’t feel like if — it felt like when. A certainty.
“I think we’re more likely to have a volcanic eruption than a tsunami.” my hubby replied nonchalantly, turning the radio volume back up.

Damn I love my husband. He cohabitates with all the voices in my head without batting an eye. Most men would run for the hills.
He just stays rational. A volcanic eruption in the Hawaiian Islands is…the rational supposition.
God love him.

I had never mentioned my premonition from the trip the previous year—too odd; but I let loose for the remainder of the drive, wondering aloud about what floor their condo was on and worrying if it would it be high enough. Neither of us had any idea and I for one breathed a sigh of relief when the answer came via text. The sixth floor. Their condo was on the sixth floor, overlooking the pool, facing the ocean.

We spent the next week eating and drinking amazing food and wine, snorkeling, swimming, driving around, and whale watching. As a matter of fact the ocean outside of our resort was a veritable whale soup. There is a passage between Maui, Lanai, and Molokai (both which we could see in the distance) that the whales like to use instead of the open ocean, and we could see them breeching from our balcony. They were present in high numbers and especially active. It was extraordinary. The guys on the whale watching boats agreed with our friends—they’d never seen a year like that a one.

Two days before our departure, on the eleventh, it all seemed to come to a screeching halt. The ocean was as passive as a lake. I hiked down the beach to a cove that was supposed to be like “swimming in a tropical fish tank”—nothing. Literally no fish. People kept remarking how odd it seemed. The guys on the whale watching catamarans were perplexed. Suddenly,no whales.

That night after my shower I turned on the TV in our room for the first time the entire trip. I’m still not sure why.
We made dinner in that night and I was just the right amount of sunburned, buzzed, full and sleepy.
As I got dressed and dried my hair I casually flipped around the channels. American Idol, Baywatch re-runs, CNN. Then I saw it.

The bright red BREAKING NEWS banner at the bottom of the screen: Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami.

I screamed something incoherent as I ran out into the family room, half-dressed, knocking things over, becoming hysterical.
“You guys, Turn on the TV! Oh my God! Turn on the TV!” I grabbed the remote, but it looked like something that powers the International Space Station, so I threw it toward my husband.

“Oh, I don’t want to watch TV…” I heard someone say, but Raphael could tell something was wrong. He said later it felt like 911 when everyone was calling and the only thing they could manage to say was: turn on the TV!

“CNN. Find CNN!” I was so freaked out I could barely speak.

When the images came up on that big screen HD TV they were even more terrifying.
It was a helicopter shot, high above the coastline of a small city. There was a wave with a white cap as far as the eye could see. it looked like it spanned almost the entire coastline and it was headed straight for cars, boats, houses…and people.

Now we were all transfixed. Silently glued to the screen with the frantic sounding Japanese commentary running in the background. This was all happening LIVE.

The CNN anchor sounded reassuring, telling us that Japan had one of the most advanced tsunami warning systems on the planet. Sirens had started sounding a few minutes after the large off-shore earthquake, warning the population to make their way to their pre-determined evacuation points on higher ground.

We watched in horror as churning brown water began rushing onshore with a ferocity that was nauseatingly familiar.
It just kept coming and coming. Undeterred by the breakwater…and the thirty foot wall they had built to withstand a tsunami.

“God, I hope they had enough time” I whispered.

Suddenly the CNN picture was minimized as the anchor’s face for the local Maui station took up the entire rest of the screen.
“Good evening”, he read off the cue card, “The entire Hawaiian Islands have been placed on tsunami watch due to the large earthquake off the coast of northern Japan. We will keep you posted as scientists get the readings off of the tsunami buoys that dot the span of the Pacific Ocean from the coast of Japan to the west coast of North America. If it looks like a tsunami is coming our way, the watch will turn into a warning.” He swallowed awkwardly, “Stay with us for further instructions.”

The screen was again filled with the escalating destruction in Japan.

I started to shake uncontrollably, my eyes filling with tears.

I saw him flinch out of the corner of my eye. It got my attention and when I looked his way his face looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
With the remote still in his hand, my husband turned toward me slowly, deliberately.
His mouth dropped open, his eyes were full of…questions.

Then with no sound; his eyes locked on mine; he mouthed my prophesy from earlier that week: We’re going to have a tsunami.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

The shrill wailing of the Disaster Alert Siren brought us both back to reality.
It was official—the tsunami was imminent.

To Be Continued…

IMG_0910 (watch this)