When one sits down to put pen to paper in an attempt to make sense of the despair and destruction left in the wake of fires such as have stuck the Los Angeles area, it is difficult not to envision a Phoenix. The Phoenix looms large, reshaping the world by its very presence: glowing, lifting, still burning with the fire’s passion that brought it into being. Born in fire and fated to spend its life returning to flames to be reborn and begin again, finding beauty and freedom even amongst the destruction and despair.
But the flames of the Phoenix are too wild, too uncontained and much too close to the jarring images of enormous flames devouring the nature that we all once cherished. Much smaller and kinder to my heart is the image of a single, small crocus pushing through what little is left of once staggering beauty. It will not change the world through triumphant bugling, it won’t announce its return with glowing flight illuminating the heavens for all to see – the crocus will simply be, inch by simple inch, persevering to find purchase in its quiet place while drawing its nourishment from the dreams now lying crushed and compacted around it.
Those dreams still have much to offer, as beaten and burned as they may be, for the hearts that held them still beat and the sun will warm them gently once the rain washes them clean once again. It’s much too soon to even begin to guess what will happen on the road to rebirth, what different paths have been cleared by the flames, what new talents will rise when the old path is no longer available – only time will tell. The very fact that life can continue – eventually – is that barely a toe-hold of hope. That change is possible, that we can learn new ways of being, new ways of living and caring for those around us. It is that hope that has allowed humankind to survive and continue in spite of the gravest and most horrible things man or nature may offer.
Fire changes everything. It is not something one can face and remain as you once were. Destructive and consuming it tears through our lives as if demon possessed, but the fire’s fury is fleeting, its fuel is finite and, eventually, life will return to its path of destruction. Tentatively, with bated breath and teary eyes – but life will return, just as that small, green shoot of promise pushes through the snow each Spring to return hope to our hearts.
Yes, we can prepare, we can be ready – we can make our mice-sized plans to fit the environment we live in and sleep at night pretending that what we have done will be enough. It won’t be, not really.
No matter what intrudes to shatter that illusion of peace, no stored water, ammunition, books or toilet paper will be enough to protect our spirits, our capacity to love and to care – to foster hope – both in ourselves and in others. The only way we can do that work is through the deep thought and consideration to find, in ourselves, the resolve to empower that one small flower of hope to push through the layers of misery. To find the nourishment (just enough) within the remains to enable our slow, arduous journey to that place where the sun can warm our buds into full bloom once again, bringing their small and delicate gift of color and life to our world.
It seems foolishly optimistic to write of this hope when the flames and sparks continue to travel and men and women are risking their very lives in an attempt to curb the loss – but it is the image of that single crocus that stems the tide of despair. We have returned before – we can do so again.
