Body-Mind-Spirit - Inspiration for Writers, Dreamers, and Seekers of Health & Happiness
![]() On January 7th, blustery winds blew open our front doors and busted the locks. I felt like my husband, daughter, and I were the three little pigs, and the wolf had huffed and puffed his way into our humble abode. It took all Helen’s strength to hold the doors closed as Jim secured them with rope while I duct-taped a collapsing window in another room. After Jim successfully fastened the grips and reinforced the large pane of glass I failed to stabilize, we took a breath.
Where to go? Most of our house has floor-to-ceiling windows. And they were rattling. We ended up in the living room watching Jeopardy. And the news. Fires burned twenty miles west, thirty miles east, and twenty miles north, our beloved city, a blazing inferno. Incinerated shelters. Plumes of grey smoke. Ash raining from toxic skies. No amount of rope, duct tape, or chairs wedged under door handles kept out the threat that we and others might lose our homes to flames. It didn’t help that we all had colds—sinus headaches, coughing, sneezing, congestion, fatigue, and I had a clogged left ear. I moved as if in a tunnel. But we were lucky. Although two house fires erupted less than a mile away in Studio City, where a four-story house burned to the ground, firefighters prevented their spread. And the Sunset fire, five miles from our home, was swiftly contained. As I write this, fires still burn. The threat has diminished, and perhaps soon, we will unpack our bags and boxes stuffed with electronics and chargers, prescription medications, family jewelry, sterling cutlery, passports, birth certificates, ancestral family photos and letters, unfinished manuscripts; books in process, vitamins, sturdy shoes, flashlights, a first-aid kit, snacks, and emergency cash. I forgot to pack my journals (hundreds spanning over forty years—too much to carry--how could I choose which volumes to save?), New England landscapes painted by my great-grandmother, my daughter’s baby, and childhood photo albums. People say, “It’s just stuff,” which is true. But we have relationships with our possessions, which we infuse with energy. It’s as if we’re attached to our belongings by invisible wires that radiate love and provide memories, support, and a sense of security. When wearing my grandmother’s gold Florentine bracelet, I feel bold and brave, protected and confident. Of course, those feelings come from inside me, not the bracelet, but the jewelry reminds me who I am and where I come from. It connects me to something larger than myself. I act as if my treasures will keep me safe and make everything okay as if survival—our most basic imperative—depends on them. But it does not. The human spirit is resilient. We need less than we imagine. Author Jesse Gross, who has worked as an emergency responder, wrote a remarkable Facebook post last week, which said, in part, “As time went on, stripped of belongings, people with nothing left to cling to, began to see the world differently. The emotional energy they’d invested in their possessions was suddenly freed, and the slate of their lives wiped clean.” The L.A. fires remind me of two hard truths: life is uncertain and impermanent. I try to make peace with this. Have faith that there’s something luminous within us all, something eternal and indestructible that can never be broken or burned. What has been lost in my city of angles swirls. The obesity of grief looms. And yet, much remains. Our home was spared, and the people who lost theirs will take tiny steps to rebuild. It will take time. They will need our support and service. We will show up, each in our way. My winter writing circles are open to anyone impacted by the L.A. fires. You may come and go as you please. There are no obligations. There is no cost. I intend to offer creative sanctuary online and provide loving support to anyone wanting to express themselves, listen to intimate stories, and share their own. This is a time for healing. Writing and other forms of self-expression bring hope, connection, and wisdom. I will keep practicing the fine art of remaining calm and loving, holding space for others and myself. Remember, I’m a spiritual being having a human experience. I have been dragged, kicking, and screaming, into letting go on many occasions. I hope that when I leave this world, I’ll be ready to release everything and everyone I love. But for now, I’m still clinging, though perhaps a little less fiercely. And I am grateful. Blessings, Bella
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