Waiting for the Wind

A report from the edge of the Kinkade fire

With additional Lyme Disease observations. 

At 6:00 AM the electricity was still off.  PG&E thought it was a good idea to protect their neglected power lines from the raging Kincade fire. 

Fumbling in the dark, I found the box of wooden matches that would light the candle to guide my way.  With my trusty pioneer spirit still with me after 78 years, I walked outside to see what the neighborhood would look like in total darkness. 

I reassured myself that things weren't really that bad with running water and a gas stove.  I could light a match, and my old-fashioned wall phone connected to a land line.  I picked up the receiver to hear the comforting sound of the dial tone.  Carrying on with my task to make breakfast, I heated up the cast iron skillet to make toast and gave myself an appreciative thank you for the good coffee I was about to make. 

My main light source was the silver Arte Nuevo candlestick that once sat on my grandmother's dining room table.  Now the three candles reflecting off the polished surface of the toaster looked more like a neon sign.  Some time ago I began to notice how different light sources refract on to other surfaces, passing along what they have to offer and bringing beauty and interesting distortions of depth as they bounce off glass surfaces, for instance, reflecting in two directions and giving the viewer a moment to contemplate unknown possibilities.  

Recently, when I was very sick with Lyme disease and had no energy, my main activity in between naps on the couch was to look at the textured walls of my living room and watch the moving shadows of the trees.  When the sun had made its journey through the day I found it reflecting off the baby block quilt I had made hanging on the wall.  My reduced state of energy, which lasted almost two months, had turned me into a different person.  No longer engaged in my usual opinions and exertions, I was being given an opportunity to experience myself as a child.  My impressions were arriving unfiltered, accompanied by a keen awareness of what I was going through.  In this state I was able to look at my baby block quilt and see its beauty emanating from the color and qualities of the silk, activated by the sun.  Without my usual opinions, I was aware I was receiving healing energy. 

When I began to feel a little stronger, I walked into the park across the street from my house.  I looked up into the trees as if it was the first time I had ever experienced a tree. 

And when I was able to walk a few blocks to another park I found myself crying for my unhappy troubled family. 

As my energy grew stronger, I drove a few blocks to the grocery store.  On the way I stopped to let a young homeless man, with bare feet and tattered jeans, cross the street.  While looking for produce in the store, I encountered a mean woman berating her silent, solemn husband as her bewildered little girl looked up at her.  Each encounter I felt as inwardly as I felt my own sorrows. 

I had become part of an endless stream of human suffering as I bore witness to the world beyond silk and magnificent trees.  Perhaps this is the answer to my question: "What do I have to give as a small drop of humanity?"  To bear witness to our suffering as I gratefully acknowledge my ability to also take in the light.