Beautiful and terrifying at the same time
We were back in LA visiting when the fires broke out.
I could see the Pacific Palisades burning from Venice — our “old stomping grounds”, where we were staying with a friend.
LA was a place I had called home for almost 10 years; it played a backdrop to some of the most formative memories of stepping into adulthood. It held me through a lot of healing, and forced me to grow.
Here I was, a byproduct of the ways that LA had shaped me, and I was watching the city burn.
At first, we were mostly in shock and awe. Texts between friends — “do you see that smoke?” — turned to “are you OK?” as the flames continued to rise with the untamed winds.
Something bigger than us, something unfathomable, was taking place. She would not be contained.
Beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
The next morning, we woke up to the smell of smoke in the home. My throat felt scratchy. The winds wore on.
The collective nervous system was frayed. What is happening? People evacuated their homes, unsure whether they’d be able to return again.
Around 10:00am I looked at my children and decided we needed to get out of here. There had been no formal evacuation order for our area (the flames never got that close) but it was the air that was concerning. I didn’t want our babies breathing this in.
My husband and I had been debating for hours; questioning which way to go. Do we head south, though the winds seem to be blowing in that direction? Do we venture north, driving right past the current flames?
We tried checking with every source we could think of — friends who lived in both directions (“how is the air quality there?”), refreshing the app that gave updates on the fire. While most people were concerned about the northbound route, we decided that was the way to go.
Santa Barbara had been another home for us; the place where our oldest daughter was born. According to friends in the area, it was also a beautiful safe haven, protected by geography from the south-blowing fire and smoke.
As we made it up the 405 to the 101, passing the Calabasas exit and heading closer to Camarillo, I felt more and more relief.
But I couldn’t stop thinking:
What if there was nowhere to hide?
Beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
There was something about the unfolding of this particular event that had me think differently about climate change.
In the past, I had viewed “climate change” as something that was “over there” — in a different part of the world, in a headline on my screen, in a different time, a point in the future that isn’t quite here.
I had read warnings of the contrary: that climate change, while disproportionately affecting marginalized communities, will soon be knocking on all of our doors; it will be a headline, until we’re the one holding the camera.
I don’t think we will realize this, until we realize it — in the moment that climate catastrophe knocks on our own door… or perhaps the door of a loved one.
Imagine feeling helpless, traumatized, by watching your family live out a climate disaster. Feeling miles away and unable to do anything other than… pray.
This is the trauma a friend of mine recently went through, as she received texts from her family in the middle of the night that they had escaped the flash flooding in Texas by climbing onto the roof of their home. There, everyone waited: wondering if the rescue teams would come, wondering if the water would stop rising.
Climate catastrophes unfold on their own terms.
Alongside the fear, loss, grief, anxiety, helplessness, panic and devastation that comes with a climate catastrophe is the aftermath.
The realization of what’s been taken; washed away; burnt to ash; gone.
A friend of ours whose house burnt down in the Palisades was having lunch with Charlie when he kept remembering, mid-sentence, things he lost to the fire. “Oh!” he would exclaim out of nowhere. “My jacket.”
The aftermath doesn’t always happen so quickly; in the case of these fires, it took days (weeks?) before the flames were contained and an “aftermath” could be properly counted. A nightmare that never seemed to end.
Then there was the pollution.
The water. The beaches. The air we breathe. All of it, polluted by the houses and cars and plastics and technology that burned.
There it was again — the warning. The dark omen that one day, all of our endless consumption and extraction will take away all that we really need.
I was sitting at Denver airport waiting for our flight to Medford, Oregon when I struck up a conversation with the woman sitting next to us at the gate.
At first, she engaged with my daughters, singing them a Waldorf-style song. Later, we realized we were headed to the same event in Oregon. I then learned that she was an educator who had homeschooled her own children. I asked her about the homeschool enrichment programs, and she told me about some forest schools in Asheville, NC, where she lived.
“We haven’t been able to return to the campuses since the flood,” she said. “It’s not a safe place to be.”
Again, the omen speaks: The time is now. We are here.
It’s interesting: I don’t feel anyone shouting anymore.
The warnings, the alerts, they feel quieter. The sunken “oh”, that falls out of your mouth as you look up to see you’re standing in the shadow of a giant dragon.
Except that dragon is our earth, the mother that we abandoned; the one we took for granted; the one we raped and pillaged; the one we took everything from and then wondered… why is she acting this way?
She is beautiful and terrifying at the same time, like nature herself.
I first read these words painted on the side of Superba on Rose Avenue in Venice, CA. These words struck me every time I drove past them — and I did, for almost 7 years, before they finally disappeared under a coat of fresh paint.
I never saw the quote again; despite googling for its author, it seemed to be a message sent just for me — or anyone else that happened to look up from their phones to see it towering above us near the sky.
I ended up getting this quote tattooed on my arm. The day this happened, I felt a rebellious chill of this is who I am; as if the ink from the words on my arm might enter my bloodstream and actually turn me into this beautiful and terrifying creature I wished to emulate.
But I was still a maiden.
I had not yet become a mother.
And then, birth happened.
After bringing my daughters to life, both unmedicated, both at home, one time with just my husband, the other surrounded by a warm bath and metaphorical basket of support, I realized what those words really meant.
To be a mother, to live out our nature, is to be beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It is to bring alive within yourself a part that is animal. It is to shed any preconceptions of what “beautiful” has been marketed to be. It is to create, but also destroy. To mother is the essence of love.
This is the energy that we need right now.
Mothers. Fathers. Aunties. Uncles. To stand in our beauty, and rise in our terror.
To meet mother earth in all her glory — and her fury.
Those fires changed me; had me realize, we take so much for granted: clean air and water. The ability to be outside.
After an event like the Palisades and Eton Fires, there is no going outside. Not without a mask, at least — and what’s the point of sitting in the yard if you don’t want your daughter playing with ash in the grass?
Sometimes, when I watch my kids play in the tiny kiddie pool we grabbed from a neighbors “FREE” pile on the road, I wonder:
How many more summers will we have when the water will be OK to swim in?
What happens when the water is no longer safe to drink?
The part of me that wants to focus on a beautiful vision is surprised to hear such pessimism.
But is it, pessemistic? Or just a dose of reality?
As a mother, a parent, I can’t stomach these questions and look my children in the eyes at the same time. I feel an immense level of guilt, weighing heavy and dark, when I think of how I brought my children into this mess. Will they lose the ability to breath in fresh air? Will they even get to be outside, at all? Are we going to pollute this planet so much that it becomes uninhabitable for us to remain? That’s what the climate experts are warning about, aren’t they?
What happens when the earth stops being beautiful, and is just straight terrifying?
I try to temper this eco-anxiety by placing my attention on the things within my control.
I spend time, outside, everyday. I soak it up. I watch my kids dig around in the dirt. I give thanks that the sun is still somewhat bearable to sit underneath. I give thanks to the water we do have, and scheme up a water-saving campaign for all of the people in my neighborhood that seem to be watering their sidewalks instead. I try to stay rooted in the wisdom that, at the very least, I can cultivate a relationship with mother earth; one that my children will hopefully inherit.
But some days, I just feel like our time here is numbered.
It’s hard not to get caught up in doom: when catastrophe has already knocked on your door.
If we’re just meeting: I’m Emily, a mama of two and a revillager who is supporting other families in bringing “the village” back to life. I’m also the host and producer of This Is How We Care, a podcast that explores visions for a world our children WANT to inherit. We are gearing up for a third season — and living within (and creating despite) a climate catastrophe will definitely be on the roster of conversations.