The three contributors in this collection, as well as the poems by Cheryl Dumesnil and Maria Rosales, come from a group of artists and writers that experienced the devastation of climate change first hand. The memoirs and photos and poems are from a group submitting renewal stories after the calamity of the Paradise Fire. — Ed. 

 

 

Julie Banwellund, 2018–I was doing the laundry and I had a thought about the shirt I was throwing in the dryer. A remembering of the times I’ve worn it and the stories it holds. And then I realized it’s not that shirt, it’s a totally different one, and I don’t even know where it came from.

This happens often in this new parallel life of ours. When I’m washing the dishes, and a wooden spoon is almost mine that is gone, or I’m sorting laundry and none of these clothes were ours two months ago, or I’m putting food in the fridge and there isn’t any space because it’s a little fridge that we didn’t pick.

It is strange. This limbo. This cocoon. It feels like the colors are muted, all different shades of gray. Things offer comfort and we are so grateful to have them, but I don’t know their stories. I pick up something that my brain substitutes for something I’ve owned for 10 years, and the process repeats. At first I recognize it as mine, and then I remember it’s not, let my eyes see it for what it is. Something new, or passed on to us. And then the memory of our pile of rubble and ash comes up. A reminder from my brain that all of our physical possessions are gone.

It is a weird half life. Where we are living comfortably, in a warm home with space and a couch and a table. But it all feels subdued. I remember how vivid our life was before. How bright and loud and saturated.

Our current reality feels muddled and muted and gray. It still has moments of vibrancy. But I feel as though I see with different eyes. I am in a cocoon. Wrapped in layers of gauze. Touch and taste and smell aren’t as strong as they were just two months ago. We are going with the flow. Trying not to offer much resistance. We are in a new town, with new stores and new people, in a new home with all new things. A new bed, new mattress, new bedding. Hardly any reminders of the life that grew organically before this one. A home we hunted for, worked on, set up ourselves, with our treasures we had collected our whole lives.

How strange to be in this space now, with these substitutions to the things we once treasured.

Trying to find the ease and joy of everyday, but still reaching for items from the past. Our brains have to rewire our realities every time we open that drawer and don’t find what we expected.

And maybe this is just the natural cycle. The mourning period, the grief, the darkness of winter. Hard to tell when all the usual variables are stripped away. All of the pillars of our previous life have crumbled, leaving us raw and open, vulnerable to the elements. Trying to be gentle and patient to all the broken pieces of myself. Knowing that I need time and rest to heal. Trying to trust that my higher self knows how to recover from this and that I just need to let myself take this time.

Trying not to compare myself to anyone else. We all deal with grief differently, we all heal differently.

The unknowing is the hardest. Trying to make a plan for the future when I still feel so unbalanced. No longer in the quicksand, but maybe in the marsh. Wondering which way will lead to stable ground, hoping I can take the right path, without loosing both of my shoes in the muck.

It is beautiful where we are now, but the fire danger is real. I don’t want to discount that factor like we did during our time in Paradise. And the fire danger is still real in Paradise, too, even with so much of the fuel burned up.

So do we just give up on California and move to Oregon, somewhere coastal where it isn’t a severe fire risk, too? Or Washington, where it is so wet there isn’t the same risk… but what do we trade out instead…?

And this is when my head starts spinning and my anxiety grows. This is where I have to let it go and trust. Trust more than I ever have before. Have faith that there was some sort of purpose in this. That my family and friends will emerge with new skills and strengths that we wouldn’t have gained before. That we will find resilience and refinement from this fire. That we can rebuild our lives with meaning and grace. That we can be patient and gentle with ourselves.

I am trying to find the purpose in the muted colors and the quiet of this winter cocoon. Trying to feel the gratitude and trust in this second chance to remake our lives with purpose. Trying not to feel so lost while I am untethered in this storm.

I want to heal through this gray winter and bloom with the spring. My roots grow stronger and deeper through this storm. I want to break out of this cocoon the strongest, most vibrant version of myself.

Some days are harder than others, but my gratitude runs deeper than my grief.

 

 

Mandi Horton, 2018 — It was hard.  It was actually harder than I thought it would be. I’m doing ok and moving past and settling into my new normal. I’m happy mostly in my daily life.  So I did not honestly expect the waves of sadness and pain and panic to be so entirely overwhelming.  But it’s ok. I needed to see it and have a chance to just be with my house and experience it. And I’m all right. I’m mostly all right. I’m probably all right….  I’m going to be all right.

 

 

 

The Rose of Paracelsus is a transcendent short story about faith, the last short story by Jorge Luis Borges.