“Move,” she ordered.
After 10 days, the evacuation orders for Topanga still hadn’t been lifted.
I was staying at my friend Dan’s house and went to a coffee shop to do some work.
But my phone died, making it impossible for me to find my way back to his home. So I went inside, where there was a small counter with a plug.
A basket sat in front of two seats on the left, a couple was sitting to the right. I asked if I could plug in. The couple said yes. And then a woman with the basket came and sat down and told me to move.
I did the math in my head. There were enough seats for all of us if she moved down one. So I said as much. But she wasn’t having it.
“Move. This is where I want to sit, and I’m going to be here for a while.”
I just couldn’t compute. There was enough space for all of us if she would make space.
“I live in Topanga. I don’t have anywhere else to go!” I blurted.
(For the record: true and not true. I couldn’t go home. But Dan’s house was ten blocks away. TRANSLATED: We’re living through a catastrophe—and we are in this together.)
She looked at me with stone-cold eyes.
This was my first day back in LA. Something in me couldn’t make sense of what was happening. “Are you okay?” Again, the words just fell out. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was really asking.
(For the record, before the fires, by now I would have been out the door, grumbling something under my breath as I went. But not now. That part of me is gone, and this new version has shown up— who keeps leaning into the moment.)
The woman continued to look at me with stone-cold eyes.
The couple beside me, uncomfortable with the conflict, got their coffee and left. Now, I was seated six inches from her. We were so close.
“What’s your name?” I continued. Again, no thoughts. I just can’t let go. Or the moment won’t let go of me as the words just kept coming.
She told me.
Then she asked my name. I told her.
“Leah from the Bible?” she asked. I nodded.
“Strong character.” I nodded.
“I love Topanga,” she said. Turns out she was wearing a Topanga sweatshirt. Turns out she spent a lot of time at Moona Star, a beautiful little sanctuary owned by a close friend. Turns out her family was affected by the Altadena fires. Turns out she was a lovely woman, an energy healer—feeling a lot.
We had a good laugh. We had so much in common.
She asked to hold my hand, and as soon as she touched me, for the first time—tears flooded my eyes. I could feel.
This leaning in, being woven into life, is what is living in the ashes.
And it’s a mess. Nothing is working like it used to. From the internet to our streets. My house was literally on the other side of the fires—and for some unexplainable reason, many electrical things aren’t working.
“Who is this god who is helping?” Melissa asked.
While the fires were burning, and most were evacuating from the fire, a man she’d never met before went on to her land, got her chickens, put them in his car, and then kept him in his bathroom where he fed and took care of them.
A 14 year old girl rode a horse through through the canyon to safety when it refused to load into the trailer. There is a woman who just went on animal rescue, and saved many cats and dogs.
We are surrounded by stories of every day heroes. Or Gods. Take your pick.
Every time I turn around, it’s another echo of someone doing something above and beyond in the moment.
Something has been taken.
Something is gone.
A way of being evacuated.
And in its wake is something else.
All I want to do right now is listen for what is here now.
I know how the old creation stories work. They start in the darkness.
We are not living this as a metaphor. I drive through mountains that are scarred and black. And I don’t arrive unscarred.
The transformative power of fire— is no longer a concept.
There is so much missing — it’s incomprehensible to understand.
There are places were there are just blocks and blocks where all that is left are chimneys. 12 members of my small crossfit gym lost their homes. One of the women told me her insurance appraiser (a disaster specialist) said he’s never seen anything at this scale before. But then there is this— so much of what was destroyed hasn’t been seen. I am understanding why when somoene dies, how meaningful to the brain it can be to see them. Right now— all of my memories are in tact. The village in the Palisades still stands, Sonia’s beautiful home and garden are still there.
But those places just aren’t here any more.
Julianna called wanting to know about if there was a large building to host an event for kids and trauma. I honestly don’t know what buildings are here.
The impulse of the mind to make meaning is here—there is a constant scanning for something to reference as we try to anchor into this new version of reality.
They say that where the fires went through, it looks like the aftermath of a bomb.
But why can’t we say that after a bomb is dropped, it looks like a fire came through?
So far the only thing many people seem to have in common is a radial capacity to be present.
As if it’s the only place to be.
The illusion that this is permenant
is gone.
We are standing in a lived collective near death experience.
It feels safe to say (that word again that has no place in this new world)
That we are different. I’ve stopped assuming I know the person I knew before: it’s much more of a meeting someone and discovering: who are you now on the other side of this experience? Some who had tough edges, are now tender. Some who were fragile, are now strong. Some who always had a hug and a kind word, now have nothing to say.
Many haven’t come home.
Many are moving.
Some have been electrified and are rooted to this place more than before.
Every time someone says, “I’m sorry,” I hear what they mean.
But I wonder what one would say when a caterpillar goes into the cocoon and dissolves on it’s way to becoming a butterfly. What one says to the being whose only option is to surrender to the moment—to be taken by the cycle of life and fully claimed by the mystery— as the old life dissolves so the next one can begin.
I lived through evacuation snd fire in the mountains in B.C. The house I grew up in So Cal is gone. Thank you for your authentic self and wisdom shared . Your words help our collective grief , offer an understanding on NDE. Blessings to you . 🌟
Leah, resting in the gravity and wisdom of your words. Love, Sarah.:.