It's Not Just Stuff
Notes (and links) from a city aflame.
Friends and strangers alike keep asking me very pointedly if I’m “really OK,” and I wasn’t sure why, until I remember that people have read my book, and know that we lost our family home to fire when I was little. But this isn’t anything like that. Watching everyone lose their homes this week is like having been run over by a truck 35 years ago and then witnessing thousands of people simultaneously being run over by a much bigger truck. I’m horrified and heartbroken for everyone who is suffering. But being triggered, or scared, or anxious, all of which I am, is nothing compared to the active danger that so many have escaped, and the long roads they have ahead. Anyhow, thank you for asking. We are OK, away from the fires, our house will most likely (I am 98% sure) be fine. I promise.
It is true that this week I was supposed to fly out of town for the funeral of a friend, but instead the entire city exploded, and I needed to stay. We’re nine days into a new year, and approximately two months into me having miraculously survived being T-boned in a police chase. My family and I are now holed up in my parents’ condo, a distance away from our own home, waiting for the smoke to clear.
I’ve been asking myself what the universe is trying to tell me, and—I’ll be honest—she’s not making a lot of sense yet. I will say when we packed and left the house late Tuesday night, carrying our sleeping daughter, we thought briefly about what things we’d want to take with us, and then immediately rejected all material objects as ridiculous. We had the kids, and our wallets, and savings to back up our wallets, and families in case all that goes to crap. We had everything we need in the world.
The truth is that since we lost that home so many years ago, I’ve enforced—some might say perfected—an aggressive detachment to things. There’s not a day since that I don’t miss our old house, and the objects inside it, and wonder what it would have been like to be able to say goodbye. But I got a whiff of my wish when we quickly ran home to grab meds yesterday, and I didn’t like it. I walked into our daughter’s pink bedroom and wondered if I should bring her some more toys. But I couldn’t make up my mind, because she’s so adorably attached to each one. I checked on my son’s room, got a book he likes, and briefly fretted about the laundry. Taking in all the stuff we own, I felt a growing tightness in my chest.
My own stuff… who cares. Once a year I post a photo of my clothes just to see who’s going to yell at me, but why do I need more than a few pairs of pants? Everything for my use is modular and replaceable. But the feeling of home we’ve spent almost two decades building? The space between the stuff, the stories of the procurement of the stuff, the way some stuff makes my kids smile, and feel safe? The time we spend together building up stuff on the table, or drawing with stuff, or snuggling under stuff? The memories trapped in the invisible love bubble around the stuff? I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to get attached to anything ever again, and despite my vigilance, an attachment has snuck in. I rushed out of there, bidding the house a little goodbye just in case, peeling myself away from its pull.
It is a stroke of outsize fortune that we still have our house, and we’ll be going back to it soon. But so many friends have lost everything this week, and they’re shaking and crying in their beds at the shock, wondering how they’re going to rebuild. I wish I could tell them everything will be OK, but it won’t. It’s going to be awful, and their relationship to the world is fractured forever. Their relationship to objects and the feeling of home is forever changed. As Jerome the mystical osteopath told me after my accident, tens of thousands of Angelinos have been on the receiving end of great social violence. Now is the time to cry and scream that life hasn’t been fair, because it hasn’t. This fracture will always be a part of them. But it won’t always be split wide open.
Right now, a lot of my pals are exhibiting post-traumatic symptoms that I’m not sure they know are symptoms. And here’s what I know about your body keeping the score: You can beat it. But instead of running away from the pain, you need to lean in and massage it out like you would a knot. You need to talk to your body and tend to it like you a wounded bird. You will feel strange waves of fatigue and try to power through them, but do not power through. Rest. Your stomach hurts? Try Nerva. Your neck, shoulders, any other muscle pains? Talk to them out loud, remind your brain you’re safe. Your body can only do what your brain tells it to do. Maybe now’s the time to start meditating. And maybe in a month or two—and I keep banging this drum because I’m right—let Judson Brewer be your co-pilot.
If you’re in LA, I hope you’re safe and resting. If any friends need a laugh, I can come meet you somewhere and guarantee a couple. If you’re not in LA, and feeling helpless, here is
roundup of GoFundMes for people who have lost their homes in the fires, and ’s wonderful guide of resources, donation links, volunteer opportunities (etc.) via .xo
This breaks my heart…
xo