My friend took me out for coffee and a sandwich yesterday. We both feel like we're mourning for the landscape. It's going to take a while to learn to live with the changes wrought by the Station Fire. Bad things happen and sometimes they're so bad you can't get over them. But you learn to live with them.We talked about other things, too--things we enjoy, projects we're working on, ideas we have--there are other things, good things. My friend cheered me up and I still feel good today.
I thought about posting something cute and happy, but I'll wait one more day. Today it's appropriate to mourn about those things we will not get over, but are still learning to live with.
22 comments:
Morning has broken. It's gonna be morning in the mountains again soon.
There's a certain calmness and serenity here, Petrea, in a sense. Maybe an air of expectancy - of waiting for renewal. In time.
Fires over there, floods over here. Life is rather gray these days...
As we attempt to find beauty and grace every day, it's still important to mourn and remember people and things that are lost to us. And like this photo, to remember that the sun is always nearby, even if it's not quite visible.
Poignant remembrance. Sad yet hopeful photo.
Peaceful.
Just have to share the word verification (sorry!):
"clunts"
?
Really worth enlarging this to catch the birds in flight...
WV: Mornisi
Mademoiselle, that WV would have been perfect for the rant post a couple of days ago. I may go back and edit it in.
I think sadness has its place in beauty and even in happiness. I don't think we need sadness to know happiness, but it may make us appreciate happiness more. A giddy edge gets sanded away, making it into something finer.
Okay, I'm a So Cal girl. Fire is truly part of the eco system here--it sprouts new life, clears out the dead. In fact, it reminds me that things go along pretty darn well despite the humans involved.
Also, I have to say, I'm celebrating the mostly gone smoke!
I think you are right. The temptation is to rush through the mourning, but you really never can, and then you just fall apart more. One feeling at a time. That's the trick
Sept.-10-2009 As our plane circled south of LA we could see plumes of smoke rising off the slope of a low mountain. Even from the air it was easy to see that southern Calif. was bone dry and a tinderbox ready to spark at the slightest provocation. Some rain would certainly be a much needed and appreciated blessing.
Wow, timely and appreciated. I just found your site and share your mourning over the loss of such beauty.
The surface has only been scratched at the damage the fire will continue do to the environment.
they still look beautiful at a distance
I was driving along the 210 and looking at all the ashen colored mountain sides. I'm looking forward to rain to wash that color away...
Someday a new sprig of pine or the tiny seedling of a wildflower will sprout up. And then another and another.
It's so true, Desiree. The fire really got me down, but I've been out there hiking for years and I knew it had to happen. It's so dry. I hope the floods don't have to happen, though.
And I'm beginning to feel better, Margaret. It's like I've been working it all out here with pictures and everyone's comments. I don't know how I ever got through trauma before I had a blog.
Almost Precious, the tinderbox metaphor is apropos. John and I have remarked on it while hiking..."hope nobody's smoking out here."
PasadenaSue, thanks for commenting. You're so welcome here. I know what you're saying and yet I see it from Desiree's perspective, too--the fires are a natural part of the forests. It's just a shock when it all burns at once.
They do, don't they, PA? I think I can even learn to love the grey.
Lisa, I'm a little worried about it all rushing down into the neighborhoods. We need to get out there and do some planting, STAT.
PIO, I wish I could remember where I read that this is a chance for us to make sure those sprouts are native and non-invasive. Some folks are already looking for ways to make this a good thing.
That's a hell of a shot. Last week it was a shot of hell.
All this grief and sadness reminds me of a beautiful poem by Kahlil Gibran, and here is a part of it:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
The chaparral will come back quite soon, but the tall shade trees, especially the pines and firs, won't make it back in my lifetime. I'm too old for this!
Thank you, Anonymous. That's quite beautiful. The rest of it is here:
http://www.katsandogz.com/onjoy.html
Oh, Bellis, I hadn't thought of it that way! But duh! Damn. It motivates me to get out there and be strong so I can hike into my 70s and 80s.
What a beautiful if tragic photogaph and your text was perfect. I hope all of you will look at your homeland and smile very soon.
V
Virginia, I shall respond to your lovely comment by going to your blog and telling you how wonderful you are.
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