The fire of July 18, 2009 changed my life in many ways.
On that day I narrowly escaped Death. That afternoon the fire inspector from Jackson enhanced my awareness by telling me I was lucky to have gotten out with my life. But it was in the weeks to come that I would learn and realize that it was a mini miracle that my life had been spared.
From the Spring of 1983 to the Fall of 1986, many of my closest family members left through Death's door. When I reached a point of love and acceptance I began to notice the light shining through the aspens, the flower that had just opened along the walk, that cloud with its funny face, the sadness in that man's eyes, the incredible smile of a child, the feather fluttering to the ground. Death had changed the way I look at the world.
The fire brought about another change. Now, every day, I say thank you. Every day I realize that today is precious and not to be wasted; if I do nothing but errands or read or work, I know that each moment is a gift. It is as if my senses have been renewed. All that exist stands before me in glorious or ugly reality and I am more aware of that which I have always known - the universe is an amazing place.
But I didn't come to this open-eyed awe immediately. The fire took its toll and the costs were steep.
For one month and three days an internal video of the fire forced me to watch again and again as my life's possessions and memories blazed into noisy nothingness. The horror film played continuously before my eyes unless I was working on a dedicated project or having a discussion with someone. I was afraid of going to sleep and only managed to do so with aid of a sleeping pill. I couldn't spend the night alone. I became as a frightened child being chased by a terrible fire dragon that was intent upon devouring me. I clung to life each day telling myself over and over again, "Time will soften your memories; time will heal your wounds. Give in to your grieving but keep walking. Yes, you have suffered the death of a million things and memories but you will heal. You can keep your memories. No one can take away your memories. Your inner visual screen will project your daughter's art, your father's ship model of the Sovereign of the Sea. They were just material things... I know, I know, not the dogs. But they went peacefully to sleep; they felt nothing. But they're gone! ...yes, they're gone, but you are here and you have been given the gift of life. Let yourself heal. Feel your pain. Cry - it's all right - cry. Bury your head and wail. It's Ok. You are here and your grandchildren are safe. You will heal and it won't take as long as recovering from a death. But it was a death! ...In ways, but this is different."
The video played on regardless of my good advice.
My husband and I found that we couldn't stop thinking about the fire and our losses. I remembered when the dog of my childhood died. My parents and I were so distraught we couldn't even talk to one another so we did something we never ever did as a family. We went to a movie. And it worked. The movie took hold of our aching minds and made them concentrate on something else. So it was that every single night for more than a month my husband and I ate a bit of dinner and sat down to a movie, the good, the bad, the silly and the ugly; we watched them all so as to rest our minds and give them a break. Then it was sleeping pill time and a few hours of dreamless, hence peaceful, sleep.
One month and three days after the fire I awoke to find that someone had switched off the video player. The disc was over on a shelf near the back of my brain and I knew I could keep it in its place unless I desired to look at its horrifying contents. I was beginning to heal.
Following the fire I had little or no appetite. For a former cookbook writer and daughter of a master chef, etc., my not being hungry says a great deal about my condition. I also had no appetite for talking to people and even rebuffed phone calls. I felt bad about this, but everyone wanted to know how I was doing and wanted the details of the horrifying event. I couldn't blame them, I would want to know the same and wish to express my caring. Unfortunately, it was simply too much for my mind to handle at the time. In fact, that is when I wrote my blog entitled "Fire". While writing that piece I felt as though I was about to have a stroke. When I finished writing I had to lie down after taking a pill to calm myself.
I wrote "Fire" for two reasons. First of all I could steer people to it and I wouldn't have to tell them the details and secondly, something deep within said that I had to write it down, that I had to get down every aspect while everything was still fresh and sharp least I muddy the memories with tangled thoughts and emotions.
The day after writing "Fire" I felt better; it had been a wise thing to do.
When something as traumatic as the fire occurs it saps everything out of you. You lose self confidence, you experience the feelings of being a victim, you wonder "...if only I had." The pain of losing what constituted your material life gnaws at your very soul. You feel lost, adrift and aimless though there are myriad things you must do. You must deal with the insurance company, the site cleaners, family, friends, a place to stay, nothing to wear and work. The world continues to spin. It doesn't care if you'd like to wallow in waves of emotions. This is good. You must get up. You must go on. Our ancestors did. People around the globe get up and move on after losing everything. "Get up!" you yell at yourself. You heed the words, you get up and you are better for doing so.
Friends and neighbors help; in a thousand ways they hold you up and help you walk - help you heal. They are wonderful. They put out the call and a wardrobe of clothes arrives in grocery bags, shopping bags and by the armload. Girl friends crowd into the bedroom as you try on pants and sweaters, blouses and jackets like an actress with a 30 second curtain call. You squeal in delight in putting on a pair of jeans that fit your tiny frame, you gush over a sweater someone relinquished so that you could be warm and beautiful. For 30 minutes you smile and laugh and say thank you. For 30 minutes you are reunited with love and life and it's good and you are deeply touched and in being touched you are changed.
Then, ever so slowly, you begin to heal and grow, and then grow some more. Always use pain as a growing agent. Everything that happens to you is a teacher in disguise. Life is a gigantic school. As soon as you learn one lesson, as soon as you ace an A, life gives you another problem to solve. Some of them are very tough nuts to crack. The trick is knowing that they can be cracked.
PS - I'm alive - Hooray! And thank you Mrs. Calabash... wherever you are.
To see a real picture of the fire, click here. I'm the one on the left.
