Trial by Fire and the Quilt of Life

San Diego, California USA

October 2003

There are moments in life that define you; those unexpected, unplanned moments, and often the most-feared moments, that somehow you don't think will ever really happen. Until they do.

When most people hear that I lost my house in the 2003 Cedar Fire Storm, the immediate reaction is silence, followed by a heartfelt," Oh, I am sorry."

I hesitate before responding, honoring their kindness.

"Don't be. I am not," I say with a gentle smile. "This may sound strange, but it was one of my great blessings in life." It is that point that I search for eye contact, as I share one of my deepest heartfelt "defining" moments of my life.

The "defining" moment didn't come on first news or first sight of my house in ashes. The moment didn't come as I camped out on the property with the heavy smoke still thick in the air, as smoldering trees occasionally reignited into flames, and my lungs struggled in the ashen air. Those were the hard moments; the empty feeling of loss, and "what now" moments.

And my "defining" moment didn't come until long after that endless wait in the FEMA line, where I had been shivering, and was handed a warm coat by a stranger. And long after we visited the Salvation Army where we were told, "take whatever you need." Or when I returned to the burnt property to find a gift basket from a friend.

While these acts of kindness eased the pain, the cross-roads moment came about a week later, as I was drinking a bottle of wine with my (then) husband Milt. We were now living on the property in a 5th-wheel trailer that was provided to us by the insurance company as our temporary housing. We were still not connected to power or sewage, so the generator was loudly running, and we both ventured outside to pee in the yard.

As we did, Milt looked up at the house and started laughing. "Honey, look at our house." I did. It was surreal. Just the chimney stood above a pile of ashes. We laughed. We giggled. And then we belly laughed until it hurt.

"Come on, there is a song I want to play." I announced playfully. We returned to the trailer and blasted "Country Boy Can Survive" loud enough to be heard by neighbors a mile away. And at that moment, at that precise memorable moment, something clicked inside me. I realized that I was at a decision point; a cross-roads in my life. I could either choose to let this fire DEFINE me; make it my story; or I could choose to make it just a part of the quilt of life.

Ah. Choices. Part of me wanted to defend my loss. We had lost everything; photos and journals spanning back to to 6th grade, baby books, home videos and art work. Things we could never replace. And we lost dozens of cockatiels and finches that were in the aviary. And the fire was not our fault; someone had set off a flare gun in the dry brush 20 miles north during Santa Anna winds. Even FEMA declared us "victims."

But I knew right at that moment that how I chose to respond to this event was going to determine how I would experience the next years of my life. I could tell the story of my loss, of the unfairness of life, or I could laugh till I cried, celebrate that we all got out alive, and with our dogs and cats. And appreciate the many beautiful acts of kindness that followed.

After that day, I still had my good days and hard days, but from that point forward the "fire" became just a part of my much longer story; a square in the quilt of life. And instead of the fire loss story, I had a new story.

"I am not my things."

"I am resilient."

"My happiness is not as fragile as my greatest fears."

Huge gratitude for the blessings from the ashes, the kindness of strangers (who I will never forget), and the care and love from family and friends.

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It is with great respect that I honor the many lives that were lost, impacted and altered by the Cedar Fire. And a special thank you to the fire-fighters who saved many additional lives, and tragically lost one of their own. Click here for a link to the Cedar Fire Memorial.