Loss and Letting Go: My L.A. Wildfire Experience

The first few weeks after the Eaton Fire, we were encouraged by FEMA and our insurance company to start an inventory of everything that we lost. It was and is a horrible exercise. This idea that we might be able to achieve some kind of wholeness by listing thousands of things that were reduced to the monochromatic ash left behind strikes me as cruel and absurd. Part of me wants to reject that idea of wholeness and the specious hope of reconciliation after profound trauma.

Thousands of families lost everything in the fires that swept through southern California the night of January 7. We were fortunate enough to see the fire when it was still small and evacuated our home in Altadena early, before the devastation began. That evening, before the first spark, the wind gusts reached 60 miles per hour, and I arranged a number of supplies on our dining room table to get us through a night or two, perhaps more, without power. I had candles, flashlights, first aid kits, snacks, water, and a couple of small generators. We were ready, I thought, for this windstorm, and then the fire began just a mile from our home. When we evacuated, my wife and I assured our children that we would probably be back home in three or four days, after the smoke had cleared.

It would have been impossible that evening to anticipate the kind of devastation that I would see the morning of the fire, when I drove up to our neighborhood at 5 a.m. and saw everything—literally every home, tree, car, shrub, or random object—burning beneath an impossibly thick, black cloud. Driving back from our street, it looked like the entire town of Altadena was burning. It was, without a doubt, the most frightening experience of my life. I tried to wrap my mind around the enormity of the loss, but it was all too overwhelming. I did not know how I would tell my wife, my children, and our friends that everything we had was gone.

When he heard about what had happened, a dear friend from Wesleyan, Stephen Scholand ’92, called and let me know that his family’s home in Connecticut was available, if we would be interested in having a place to heal. Given the madness of finding anywhere to live in Pasadena and the constant reminders of our loss every time we stepped outside a hotel, Airbnb, or a friend’s home, we decided to make the move. I loved Connecticut when I was at Wesleyan and always thought that I might someday end up living in New England. Now, after 25 years in California, my family has decided to make our move to the Constitution State permanent.

These last few months have been filled with constant moments of recollection and surprise. I’ve learned more about how my mind and body remember things differently and sometimes together. How some memories are prompted by textures and smells, others by sights, and still others by marginal presences that never fully draw from a specific object or thought, but that spring from a sensation that I might once have felt with something now lost. I had a cracker today that I had first tasted on the balcony of our home in Altadena. The first bite brought a flood of memories and emotions, small details of what it was like to sit on that balcony with our friends, drinking wine, tasting different cheeses, talking about our children, the school board, our plans for the holidays, and hearing the kids play in the backyard. This memory felt so full of life and promise and yet it immediately yielded to the reminder that this home was lost, those friends are now scattered throughout California and other parts of the country, and the entire neighborhood that we could see from that balcony was destroyed in a single night of fire.

Since then, my wife, kids, and I have talked about the important, memorable things that burned. I had collected over 4,000 books, many of them signed first editions, and they are gone. My daughter, Emerson, has talked about all her stuffies, artwork, and crocheted dragons, sweaters, and blankets that are gone. My middle child, Auden, lost their books, their massive collection of Star Wars Lego, and the artifacts of 18 years on this earth. My wife, Beth, recalls different special things every day: a vase, her father’s woodcarvings, her favorite hat from Peru, a special coffee mug.

Among the books that I lost were ones about Buddhism given to me by Professor James H. Stone II. During my first year at Wesleyan, he had taught me how to practice Zazen and let me be his teaching assistant for three years. He was my mentor, my friend, and, at one point, someone who saved my life just by reading my letters and holding on to them. Through him, I learned many vital lessons about coping with pain and suffering while living with compassion (and a certain high level of irreverence). He was, in many ways, a cipher to me, and I feel like I’ve continued learning from him over the many years since I graduated.

James and I would often talk about the meaning of being fully present, of accepting that life is suffering, and the impact of letting go of ego and attachments. All of those lessons have helped me get through these last few months since the fire. When teaching me to sit Zazen, James would remind me that if I had a thought come up as I was meditating, that I was fine, I just needed to acknowledge it and let it go. I’ve relied on this wisdom when some memories rise like embers in my mind. I have this certainty that there’s more to the rubble that was cleared away from the plot of land where we once lived than just the objects we have to list. I acknowledge the item, the loss, thank it for having been a part of my life, and let it go.