Guest Post – An Artist’s Fire Story

November 15, 2011

Dear Friends,

One of the great privileges of writing Burning Down the House is receiving letters and emails from people all over the world. I hear from an incredible range of folks who have experienced some kind of great loss – be it a home, a spouse, a loved one, or a way of life. One person, who is currently battling terminal cancer, wrote, “I’m not sure why, but reading about how you are handling your loss gives me the strength to get up every day and face my own.” This letter made me cry, and still does.

It is an honor to hear from readers about their own loss and renewal, and from time to time, I’ll be sharing their letters on this blog. This is the first of those stories, from a local artist named Anastasia Horwith.

I met Anastasia right after we both lost homes in the Four Mile Canyon Fire last year.  Her rented house burned down, and she didn’t have insurance, so she truly has lost everything.  She sent me this note, which so moved me that I asked her if I could share it with you. This is a glimpse into her story, and her amazing attitude about recovering from the fire.

Hi Andi,

We met, briefly, at the art event up at  Chautauqua after the fires. I was still moving through the brain fog, and the brief connection with someone else who had lost their home was heartening to me. You provided a camaraderie that only a fellow survivor could. Thank you, kind lady.

After finding a (very cool) place in town to rent, it didn’t take very long to move in (no moving trucks needed this time!) We are still living with a coffee table I found in a ‘free’ pile after a garage sale, I am still wearing my daughter’s roommate’s pants, and we still have things from the free store in our kitchen; all iconic reminders of the miracle that we – folks in all 169 homes – survived.

I believe there are miracles around us everyday – it is a glorious thing and I try to keep my sense of pure gratitude and wonder. We had just 20 minutes to get out that morning, and not one minute more. I think we may have been one of the first to burn. We left with the clothes on our back, our daughter and dogs. My neighbor, who had come knocking on our door telling us to ‘Go now!’ ended up having to run through the woods on foot for a couple of miles to survive. It was crazy. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized we would never have made it out if the fire had been just a few hours earlier. If we had been sleeping, by the time the smoke alarms went off it would have been way too late. Each day, I am so, so, so grateful to be alive.

As scary and terrible as the fires were, I have learned many things as a result. The incredible kindness of strangers has been so touching. It really restores my faith in the goodness of people. Total strangers sent us money, offered us their homes, gave us furniture… And then there were the free stores, staffed with some of the nicest and kindest people ever. It was hard to go to those stores, I could only go on days when I felt fairly strong, but it certainly helped us early on when we couldn’t even think. I was never a person who felt like I needed a lot of ‘stuff’, although in 50-ish years, I had accumulated quite a lot.  Now I realize I need very little. It will take a long time to find the little ‘treasures’ and fun things for the house, but we have everything that we need. Life is good.

I wish you blessings and pure goodness in your life, I am excited for your new house and all our new lives……….love your blog, it really touches my heart!

I am attaching one of my new paintings. I wanted to share it with you because it is about gaining momentum and the powerful energy of going forward, and finding joy in our new lives.

Hugs,

Anastasia

Posted on November 16, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Guest Posts | 21 Comments
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Building a House to Die In

When people hear that I’m rebuilding my burned-down house, they smile and ask me if I’m now building my “dream house.”  They’re always crestfallen when I say “No.”

My dream house, I tell them, is a glass box on stilts, overlooking the ocean, on a cliff somewhere outside of Mendocino, California. It has a pool, and a hot tub. It comes with a gardener, a housekeeper, and a personal assistant who wakes me every morning by pushing a button that slowly raises the shades on my glass-walled bedroom, as she sets down a tray of espresso and warm croissants.  She tells me that Nellie has already been fed and has had her early morning walk, and hands me my schedule of appointments for the day.  Nellie jumps up on the bed, vying for a bit of croissant as I sip my espresso and look out over the ocean, and think about my day.

That’s my dream house. Emphasis on the word, “Dream.” What I am building in reality is the house I can afford – a beautiful, albeit practical house.  A one-story, two-bedroom, age-in-place, net-zero house, where I can spend the rest of my life overlooking the mountains, not the ocean. A house to live in; a house to die in.

What I dream of these days is a house that has photovoltaic panels and passive solar heat, and super-efficient appliances that “reduce load” and consume little electricity. I dream of having no utility bills for the rest of my life, and selling electricity back to the power company. I dream of on-demand hot water, super-insulated walls, and thermal breaks in the construction that help keep my house warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

This is not to say that I don’t love the design for my new house – I do. I am lucky to have a wonderful architect and a compassionate and experienced contractor. But this is not your usual house building project, with happy clients who are at last doing that great remodel, or who really are building their Dream House. I am edgy and weepy and obsessively worried about money. My judgment is sometimes impaired from the long process of grief and loss and the daily grind of endless to-do lists that I mostly handle all by myself. I am a single, self-employed, middle-class American with little savings, who has just gone through one of the most traumatic experiences of her life. I am in no shape to be building a house. But of course, I am.  So I do my best to try to find ways to both save money and build something that will suit my needs in the long haul.  And of course, it has to be pretty. And I have to love it.

That said, you can imagine that I am driving my architect and builder a little crazy. I’m good at making decisions, but I’m also an obsessive, over-educated researcher. When my builder said, “You have to pick a bathtub really soon, so we know where to set the drain in the foundation,” I drove myself crazy with possible options. Instead of saying, “Oh, let’s just put in a standard bathtub. Whatever fits in the space will be fine,”  I researched bathtubs for three straight weeks. I went to plumbing showrooms all over Colorado, and to Lowes and Home Depot and the Great Indoors, searching the aisles. I climbed into tubs and stretched out, looked at squares and ovals and Jacuzzis and Japanese soaking tubs, and even called my eighty-one-year-old Mom in California and asked her to measure her bathtub.

Finally, I found a sort of hybrid jacuzzi/soaking tub on line, and they were having a half-off sale that included free shipping, and it was the LAST day of the sale. I called the builder and the architect and they told me the tub I wanted was too big, but if I wanted to make the bedroom a little smaller, they could fit it in. “Do it,” I said.  I must confess, I felt quite powerful, chopping six inches off the bedroom in one fell swoop. And now I have my really big, comfy tub, ordered and paid for.  It is luxurious (oval and with jets) and practical (energy efficient, easy to clean, and has built-in grab bars.) I love it. I wish I could get in that tub right now, in fact.

And then there’s the deck.  Back in October of last year, I did a little doodle of what I wanted for my new house.  I drew a simple, one-story box, with a big, semi-circular deck that ran the entire length of the house. I remember I laughed to myself, and thought, “Fat chance I’ll ever be able to build a deck like this.” But I stuck the drawing in a book, and kept it.

Fast forward to the first meeting at the architects’ studio, where we looked at preliminary sketches.  There, on paper, was my small house, with a square deck. Very cute, very affordable. As David Barrett, the head of the studio, said, “Very rational.” I liked it a lot, and didn’t say anything about my Dream Deck, the one that would look like the deck of a ship, and help me imagine, as I leaned on the railing at night, that I was sailing the seas, somewhere off the coast of Mendocino.  I stayed quiet, and smiled, and focused on other parts of the house.

At one point in the conversation, there was a pause, as we all looked at the plans.  Then I said quietly, “Um, could we make the deck a little bigger?” We stared silently at the drawings, the very tight budget and the cost of decking materials running through our heads.  Then David picked up a pen from the table, and said, “Well, what about this?” And he drew a semi-circular deck, running from end to end, like the deck of a ship.  Amy, the lead architect, who is brilliantly creative and eminently practical, raised an eyebrow. “That’s a REALLY big deck, David.”  And I sat there grinning like a kid, feeling giddy for the first time since the fire. “Yes,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. “That’s a REALLY big deck.” And that’s the deck we’re building.

Since the deck is so darn expensive, I have to cut costs in other ways.  On Saturday, I kid you not, I read the entire IKEA catalogue on line, obsessively trying to figure out ways to save money on the cabinets, the closet doors, the kitchen. But it’s worth it. When I move in, I may only have two towels and five dishes from the Goodwill, but I will have a deck to die for.  And a small, gorgeous, energy-efficient house to live in, for the rest of my life.

So when people ask me, “Are you building your dream house?”and I reply, “No, I’m building a house to die in,” they think I am morbid and strange.  But it is a joyful concept, and an overwhelming, but deeply satisfying process.  A house I can live in, gracefully, as I age. A house that is run by the power of the sun, and that is filled with the love of friends, who will sit on the big, curved deck and dream their own dreams – of houses, and oceans, and pirate treasure, buried deep.  A house to die in – a house to live in. That is my dream these days.

Wishing You Sweet Dreams, and Safe Travels,

Andi

Pouring the foundation for the new house!

Posted on October 22, 2011 by Andi
Posted in The New House | 16 Comments
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A Little Look Back

It’s been a year since the fire, and I’m taking a moment to look back, and reflect. I thought I’d re-post an essay I wrote a year ago, when I was really in the Belly of the Beast of this experience. A year later, I’m still displaced and struggling with the overwhelming details of putting my life back together, but the edges have softened somewhat. I’m so grateful to be a year away from the raw and ragged feelings of that first month.

When I wrote this, I had just moved into my cottage in Chautauqua, and had just seen the remains of the house for the first time. I hope you enjoy this little look back, and take good care,

Andi
_________________________________________________________________

Bad Dreams and Good Dreams

September 21st, 2010
Two Weeks After the Fire

Hello Friends,

I took Nellie on a walk around my cottage at Chautauqua this evening, as the sky was darkening and the air finally cooling off.  It was as if I was waking up from a bad dream and seeing what was around me for the first time.  The rustling leaves, the lovely gardens, the expansive meadow that stretches all the way up to the Flatirons.  I have run through fire and landed in this small Paradise.

We walked over to the dining hall, which was strung with little white lights, and the porch was full of people having dinner, talking and laughing.  They looked so normal.  What was that like, normal?  I remember it somehow, off in a dream, in my former life.  It feels like a long walk back to that place.

On Friday we went up to the house, with our shovels and rakes and gloves and masks and boots, and a parrot (stuffed; no I’m not kidding) and not one, but two pirate flags.  As we pulled in down the long dirt driveway, I saw a coal-black meadow on either side of the car.  Burnt, skeleton trees all around.  And then closer to the house, some trees that looked charred, but like they might survive.  And tiny patches of unburnt grass, that somehow escaped the inferno.  And then I saw the house.

The ex-house I should say.  It looks like it exploded, and it might have. There was nothing but a foundation buried in a couple of feet of pure white ash and rubble. There were piles of melted glass and twisted metal —  the garage door frame was twisted like a pipe cleaner into odd shapes. Debris from the walls was thrown six feet past the foundation, so either the wind carried it or the house really did explode.

House Site After Four Mile Canyon Fire

Before I went up, people told me I’d be amazed at the things I’d find.  Christmas ornaments under piles of rubble, photo albums, charred but still there, they said.  What did we find?  Nothing, really. Everything in the house was incinerated.  My friend Terri saw one of my journals, and when she tried to pick it up, it literally turned to dust.  Only the blackened wire binding remained, twisted with heat, like everything else.

Bicycle after the fireOur Pirate Band made a valiant effort, though. My only goal for this expedition was to see if we could find the contents of my jewelry box, which held three generations of family heirlooms – the wedding and engagement rings, as well as antique jewelry. We dubbed this, “The Booty.”  We picked a spot in what used to be my bedroom, and the heroic gals spent three hours excavating a three by three foot square, sifting with a screen through layers and layers of ash, melted glass, sharp objects and toxic dust.

Even my insurance adjuster got into the act.  He had been walking the property making notes, and when he saw all my women friends digging in the blazing hot sun, he put on his white hazmat suit and got down on his knees in the rubble, in search of the Pirate Gold. He’s a white-haired gentleman in his sixties, and he was down there getting dirty with us. This is the inspirational power of women with shovels.

.Putting Up Prayer Flags After the FireAt the end of the day we packed up, then formed a circle and tied a small prayer flag to one of the trees.  Then we did our Pirate Call; yelling “AAARRRRGHHHH!” at the top of our lungs.  Then we drove back down the mountain, to this quiet and green and peaceful haven that is Chautauqua.

And there, on the porch of my cottage, was a lovely dinner that someone had made me.  Tuna, asparagus, and rice pilaf. Fruit for dessert.  With napkins, and a lovely tall drink, on a plastic tray.  I picked up the tray and said to Sandy, “Look! I have a tray!”  When you have nothing, even a plastic tray is a treasure.

So I will continue to hunt for treasure, and relish the gifts that are left at my door.  Every day brings me a little closer to home, one step farther in my journey back to Normal.

Last night I thought about making a piece of toast before bed.  When I realized that it would mean finding the bread, opening the bread, putting it in the toaster, getting out a knife and a plate, I felt so exhausted I just went to bed. But at least I thought about it, which is good. Someday I will make toast again without even thinking. Someday I’ll even feel that cooking is not an impossible task. Someday I will go to the grocery store and not burst into tears and leave, because there is so much there and I can’t imagine what I might want to buy.

Someday I will wake from the Bad Dream, and be in the Good Dream, the one where you wake up smiling.  And in the meantime, you will be there with me, every step of the way.

I think in our darkest moments, each of us wonders if we are truly loved by anyone.  If we weren’t here, what difference would it make?  Would people even notice if we were gone? I will no longer wonder about this.  I now know that I am truly loved —  by friends, by neighbors, even by strangers.  The world is a wide and beneficent place, and I am the recipient of  All Good Things.  What a privilege it is to be so loved.

May we all Dream Well, of green mountains, wide rivers, and cooling oceans, of pirate treasure buried deep, and loving friends to catch us when we fall.

Good Night and Take Care,
Andi and Nellie

Nellie on the Beach, Just Before the Fire

Posted on September 27, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Moving On | 2 Comments
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A Lovely Interview

Last week, Ryan Warner of Colorado Public Radio interviewed me about the one-year anniversary of the fire. I really enjoyed speaking with him about life, loss, and renewal (and of course, about my favorite topic, Nellie!)

Editor David Fender did a beautiful job putting it together, and I’m grateful to them both for keeping the Four Mile Fire folks in the public consciousness.  We still have a long way to go until we’re really “home.”

Here’s a little preview…

Rising From the Ashes, by David Fender

About this time last year, Andi O’Conor was on vacation, kayaking in Washington state, when she started getting a bunch of calls and e-mails. Friends were letting her know that a fire was raging near her home west of Boulder. O’Conor decided to head back…

Click here to hear the full interview.

Enjoy!

And take good care,

Andi (with wags from Nellie)

Nellie and me up on the land last week, checking out the new foundation. She likes it!

Posted on September 14, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Good Moments | 2 Comments
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Anniversaries

Sometimes the lights all shinin’ on me,
Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me,
What a long, strange trip it’s been.
– Jerry Garcia

Hello Friends,

Well, it’s been a year since the fire – the longest, strangest year of my life.

I’m not sure why we humans are so compelled to remember anniversaries – perhaps it helps us see how far we have come, to remember what was lost, and take a moment from our hectic, forward-thinking lives to stop, and reflect.

Personally, I’m not big on anniversaries. I don’t mark the passing of my father, or my brother, or of any of my beloved pets. It’s not because I don’t think about them – just the opposite. I tend to dwell on things too much, I get morbid and mope around. It’s better for me to be busy. So on September 6th, I will be working – giving a presentation in another state. I’m sure I’ll stop and remember that it was on this day that my house burned down, but I’ll be too busy to mope.

A few days after the anniversary of the fire, on September 11th, our local United Way is sponsoring a dinner for Four Mile Fire Survivors –  an odd choice of dates, to be sure. It’s the tenth anniversary of 9/11.

We all remember that day – The planes hit the towers, and they burned and fell, along with our optimism, our momentum, and our economy. And there’s still a hole in the ground where the Towers stood, and for many of us, a hole in our hearts, left from that day.

So here we all are, ten years later, still recovering, emotionally and financially, from 9/11. And here I am, a year later, recovering from my own small version of that, my own little disaster. For in the grand scheme of things, it is a small tragedy, like the small, daily disasters that each of us face in our lives. Planes crash, towers fall, we lose a loved one or a home, or a way of life, and our personal world turns on its axis, never to return to the old rotation. Our lives spin on, with a new trajectory – one that is strange and dizzying for a while, and then we adjust.

A fellow fire survivor in Idaho was asked to write a piece about how she had “triumphed over adversity” since her house burned down. She had mixed feelings about this, as do I. It occurs to me that as much as we’d like to think we can “triumph” over adversity, what we really do is adapt. We get used to the rocking ship and the rough seas, and hope we can make it through this storm to a better place. And when we get to that place, have we triumphed? I’m not sure.

But I do know that grief and loss and unwelcomed change are part and parcel of this life on Earth, as are joy and love and celebration. Like the tides, like the waxing and waning moon, we all go through times of light and dark, of ebb and flow, and Death is always the Great Teacher. As my father used to say, it all ends some day, and as you go through life, “You can cry, or you can sing.” Well, most days I do a little of both.

It is a year after the fire, and we have just finished pouring the foundation for my new house. My new, smaller house will rise, as will the new, smaller World Trade Center. There are still holes in the ground where the Twin Towers stood, but soon they will become lovely fountains, filled with water that will sing and dance and soothe the hearts of millions. A new foundation, a beautiful fountain – the building blocks of a new life. And you know what? It’s a start.

Sending You Good Thoughts in This Season of Anniversaries,

Andi

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Moving On, The New House | 13 Comments
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Outside of a Dog

Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.
Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

- Groucho Marx

I am taking this vacation without Nellie.  Since I only had a week and was flying, it was too complicated and expensive to bring her. And frankly, she is happier at home, in her own bed, curled up with her Aunt Shelly and Aunt Katherine, who are taking turns house and dog-sitting. I also thought it would be a good experiment, to see what a dog-less life was like, and to experience traveling without the ever-present responsibility that is Princess Nellie.

The first few days, I felt so free.  I could sleep in, and didn’t have to jump up at dawn, throw on my clothes, and stumble outside for an early morning doggie potty break.  I could go kayaking, and take hikes in parks where dogs aren’t allowed, without worrying about Nellie in the car, or Nellie being alone, or hot, or thirsty. I could walk the beach and pet other dogs, instead of avoiding them, since Nellie isn’t a fan of strange dogs.  But after a few days, I felt adrift.  I realize that Nellie is my anchor, my reason for getting up in the morning, my joyful responsibility. She is the only creature in my life who is consistently happy – She goes to sleep happy and wakes up happy, each and every day, no matter what.

Without Nellie, I am Outside of a Dog, a stranger to my life.

I have several friends who were long-time Dog People, and as they’ve gotten older have chosen not to get another dog.  Too painful, say some of them. We want to travel, say others.  But for me, coming home to No Dog is a strange and lonely experience. I miss curling up with her at night, waking up to her in the morning –  the walks, the treats, the Rhythm of Dog.

What I have learned Inside of a Dog is that it is the responsibilities of life that give it meaning, and fulfillment. Yes, there is a freedom in being able to do whatever you want.  And for me, there is a lonely shapelessness to that life as well.  I am better, I realize, Inside of a Dog.

I am happier with Nellie by my side, running the beach, making me laugh as I watch her chase the waves, and stalk the gulls, and creep up to a pile of seaweed, poking it to see if it’s alive.  If she were here, I would be thinking, “Oh, Jeez, Nellie. You’re a mess! Now you’re going to get sand all over the rental car, and make the seats all wet, and how am I going to clean you up in the hotel room without wrecking the towels?” and I would wonder if life just wouldn’t be simpler and better without a dog. Well, now I know the answer - No, emphatically no.  Life is better with a dog –  tucked into my arms, curled up at the foot of the bed, showing me the joy in everyday responsibilities.

I have enjoyed this short vacation by the sea, and the unstructured days, and the time to read, and write. And I cannot wait to see Nellie again, and give her the silly stuffed bird I bought her, and watch as her eyes widen and her tail wags wildly and she leaps around and seems to say, “A TOY? FOR ME?!!?” Wagwagwag.  Outside of a Dog, books are pretty good company.  But Inside of a Dog, Life is Good.

Wishing You Safe and Happy Travels, and Days Full of Doggie Love,

Andi

Posted on August 26, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Good Moments, Nellie the Dog | 12 Comments
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How to Survive a Minus Tide

August 13th, 2011

I am on the Oregon coast right now, having a little break from my overwhelming, post-fire life.  This week was the full moon, which meant that we had some low, low tides out here. And a really cool occurrence –  a “minus” tide.

Most of us know something about the tides; they go up, they go down. They are caused by the gravitational pull of the moon, which tugs on the oceans of the Earth and makes the water stretch out into space, egg-shaped.  The places where the water is pulled out towards the moon is where the tide is high. The other sides of the “egg,” where the water is thin, is where the tide is low. Here’s a picture I got from Wikipedia:

See how the moon pulls the water out towards it? Cool, right?

Tides are also affected by the wind, the pull of the sun, and other stuff, but it’s mostly the good old moon.

So this means the concept of “sea level” is a bit tricky. If the level of the sea is different every hour, all around the world, how to we figure out “sea level?” Well, scientists have – don’t ask me how – and the average level of the sea is what they call the “zero tide height.”  Most low tides are actually above zero (again, don’t ask me to explain this) but every once in a while, the moon pulls the water way, way out, and we get a minus tide, which means the tide is “below zero.” And this is really, really cool. This is when you wake up in the morning and look at the beach and it’s bigger than you’ve ever seen it before. Little rocks have become huge islands; tiny sand spits are long jetties, reaching out into the bay. You can walk for miles on places that were completely underwater just a few hours ago. Like I said, really cool.

It means that tide pools emerge, and curious humans can get up early and go down to the beach and poke around in them.  It means that animals like starfish and mussels and anemones and barnacles, who live in the intertidal zone near the beach, must, in a sense, hold their breath until the water returns.

They’re adapted to this, of course, and genetically programmed to survive the low tides. Every six hours or so they go through that uncomfortable time of day, when the cozy, life-giving water recedes, and they are at the mercy of the sun, the seagulls, and the curious humans. So they’re used to hard times. But then every once in a while, there is a minus tide, and all hell breaks loose.  All of a sudden, they are way WAY up on the beach, stranded in a tide pool. “Hold on here,” thinks the starfish during its first-ever minus tide, as a little kid grabs him and starts waving him around, “I don’t think I’m quite prepared for THIS.”

Even though I’m on vacation, and trying not to think about the fire, as I walked the beach this morning I kept thinking that we all go through a Minus Tide at some point in our lives. We think we’re ready for disaster -  we’re good at holding our breath, at clinging to the rocks until the bad stuff passes and the tide comes back up – but then we hit something big, like fire, or death, or serious illness. Whoa, Minus Tide. I don’t think I’m quite prepared for THIS.

As I looked at the stranded creatures on the beach this morning, I mentally willed them to hold on, hold on. The tide will come up again, I thought, don’t you worry. Just hang on. Hang on.

So here’s a little photo essay, called How to Survive a Minus Tide, sent to you, from me, from the cold and windy Oregon coast, where the tides ebb and flow, and rise and fall, and always teach me something new.

How to Survive a Minus Tide

First, don’t try to tough it out.  There’s no sense in trying to go it alone.

Instead, hang on to your friends for support.

Realize that people might actually be nicer than you think.

And most of all, have faith.  Everything ebbs and flows…

…and if you just hang on…

the waters will return….

the tide will rise again…

…and a new and beautiful shoreline will appear.

Whew, you made it! Kick up your heels, celebrate your success, and take a little break. Because you just never know what the tide is going to do next!

Sending You Love, Blessings, and Cool Ocean Breezes,

Andi

Posted on August 18, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Good Moments, Moving On | 11 Comments
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Happy Camp

August 11, 2011

Last week I was at brunch with some friends and had a little meltdown, right there at the table. With the one-year anniversary of the fire fast approaching, my stress level has gotten over the top. The insurance still isn’t settled, construction on the new house is over budget, and I’m uncertain where my next freelance work is going to come from. So, after describing my woes, I put my head down on the table and said, “I just don’t even know what to do next.”

My friend Shelly asked, “What do you REALLY want to be doing right now? Just say something off the top of your head.” I said, “I want to be back at that funky place on the Oregon coast where I was last year before the fire.  I want to do nothing for a week except stare at the ocean and write.”  “Okay, then, ” said Shelly. “Make it happen.”

And a week later, thanks to the kind generosity of several friends, here I am.  In that same funky place as last year, where the floors are warped and the furniture is Early Garage Sale, and you step off the beat up old porch right out onto the beach.  It’s at the dead end of a dirt road – a run-down, fabulous little place called, aptly, Happy Camp. My cell phone doesn’t work here. That alone makes it worth the trip.

This week I will not think about fires or work or insurance or what I’ve lost and found this year. I will simply stare at the ocean, and walk the beach, and exhale. I am a Happy Camper.

Many thanks my friends, and lots of love. I’ll catch up with you soon.

Andi

PS: Here’s a little slide show I made on my first day here.

Posted on August 12, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Friends, Good Moments | 4 Comments
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The Long Road

There are the ones you call friends
There are the ones you call late at night
There are the ones who sweep away your past
With one wave of their hand…

I can hear your voice in the wind
Are you calling to me? Down the long road…

-The Long Road, by Cliff Eberhart

I have an appointment today to meet with my friend Rebecca, to work on my personal property inventory. This is where you make a list of every single thing that you owned that burned up in the fire, so the insurance company can figure out the “replacement value.” You have to list everything – not just “Clothes” and “Furniture” and “Personal Effects,” but every pair of socks, every shirt, every notebook and pencil and paper clip in your whole damn house.

Not only do you have to list everything you owned, but where you bought it, when you bought it, what it cost, what it will cost to replace, and what proof you have that you owned it in the first place.  I am not kidding. You have to do this for Every. Single. Thing.

Hey, what about those boxes of daffodil bulbs I had in the refrigerator that I was going to plant in the fall? Put them on the list. Nellie’s dog toys and Halloween costumes? Put ‘em on the list. What about that trunk that I had, with the letters my mom wrote to my dad when they were dating, and my old Park Ranger uniform, and my dad’s enlistment card from World War II, and the graduation robes I wore when I got my PhD? Um, put them on the list? How do I document the when, where, how, and how-much of things like that? Replacement value? There’s no such thing.

The insurance people tell you to do this right away, so that you don’t start to forget what you’ve lost.  Forget what you’ve lost – are you kidding?

As I go through my list, I think to myself, “There is no proof of my existence any more.” There are no photographs of me, no artifacts to help understand my own indigenous culture-of-one.  Yes, there are digital records of my life, and documents in cyberspace, made of light and air, but there is nothing in my physical world to prove that Andi O’Conor existed, was a child, grew up. There are no diplomas, there are no transcripts. No passports with stamps that show my travels in India, Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Caribbean. No poetry that I wrote in junior high; no small, locked journals from high school where I documented the ups and downs of my First Love.

There is only a birth certificate that shows that I was born in Boston, on this date, at this time. The rest of my life is now a blank. The past is ash; thoroughly and completely gone.  Where there were documents, things, objects that showed me my past, there is only space, there is only Now.

We Americans are not that big on Now – we believe in The Future. We are a restless lot, and we love to reinvent ourselves, to start over with a new identity, a clean slate. People in other cultures are shocked at how much we move around. I remember reading something a British journalist wrote years ago, pre-9/11. He said,  “Americans jump on airplanes the way Britons get on buses. They are always going somewhere, always looking for something.”

I have reinvented myself many times in my own lifetime, from corporate PR person to Park Ranger to Sign Language Interpreter to Professor, so I know the dance of change all too well.  But when I turned fifty, I felt like I had finally found my niche, my place, my work in the world.  Last summer, just a few months before the fire, a friend asked me if I wanted to go hit the weekend garage sales, and I said, “You know, I feel like I finally have everything – I can’t think of a thing I need.” I was happy being single, with my friends and neighbors and dog for company.  I was heading out to Port Townsend, Washington, to spend August in a carriage house by the sea, working and writing. It was a long-held dream come true, and the pieces of my life had finally fallen into place. Finally.

And then, well, you know. It all Burned Up, and a year later here I am, in a rented house in town, writing. I have a rug on the floor that I got with a gift card from Target, some linens from the Free Store, and a small amount of clothes. The dishes and pots and pans belong to the landlord, as does the silverware and towels and furniture.

I joke to my friend Beth that I am like Jesus, like the Lilies of the Field, that I have only what people have given me. My begging bowl is filled with gifts from passers-by; from strangers, from friends, from the insurance company. Some New Age people say that Jesus was a millionaire, which I find a bit difficult to believe. I prefer to think of him as a refugee, as a Fire Person, as someone who roamed the hot, burning desert, owning only what was given to him, searching, and searching, for that Ultimate Message of Love.

But me? I’m a Modern Human, and I can’t live this way for long.  I can’t float along in my little rental, wearing the same three outfits, for the rest of my life. No long white robe and sandals for me; I have to be in the world. So I will write my inventory, and give it to the insurance company, and go shopping, and reinvent myself once again.

The person that I was is gone, burned away. Who is this person now, I wonder.  Why does she exist, and for whom?  What is the purpose of her life, and what will she accomplish?

The future stretches before me like a wide, open road – expansive, full of light. From here I cannot see where it goes, only that it does go –  on and on.  And so I brush off the dust and the ash from the fire, and God, I hate to say it, Move On.  Down that road, past the suffering and the trauma and the sharp and searing pain, to a new reality, a softer reality, where the worst is, for the moment, behind me.  I set off to find new place, a new purpose, a new Great Love. I take a step, and then another, and then I am on my way.

Wishing you sweet dreams, and a safe and peaceful journey. Thanks for walking with me,

Andi

Andi and Nellie on the Old Foundation

Posted on August 7, 2011 by Andi
Posted in Moving On, Nellie the Dog, Spiritual Experience | 12 Comments
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An Almost Perfect Night

July 5th, 2011 – Ten Months Since the Fire

Dear Friends,

The other night I went out with girlfriends for a rare night out since the fire. It was so delightfully “normal.” We met for dinner, saw a free concert at an outdoor mall, shopped the summer sales, had tea on the sidewalk and listened to more music.  I bought my first skirt since the fire (I now own one skirt!) and it was a perfect summer night.  I relaxed. We all lingered, relishing each other’s company and the warm summer air.

Around ten o’clock we decided to call it a night. I drove home with the windows open, marveling at the sweet smell of summer flowers that drifted into the car. I stopped at a light, inhaling the delicious night air, thinking, “Well, my year in town really hasn’t been so bad…” when the sound of a siren broke through the night and a fire truck raced out in front of me, heading in the direction of my new, temporary home.  I instinctively stomped on the gas, chasing it, my mind racing. “Oh my God, what if my house is on fire? Oh my God, Nellie is home alone. Oh my God, did I ever get that renter’s insurance? Oh my God, this is why I should never buy anything ever again – it’ll just burn up. This is why I should never, ever leave my house…”

I chased the truck and at every turn toward my house I thought, “Please don’t turn here,” and of course it did. I was certain that my house was burning, that Nellie was inside, that all was lost, again…

A half block from my house, on the very last turn, it went the other way.  I pulled over, in a state of sheer panic, all the magic of the evening lost. I was shaking. JesusGodAlmighty. It took a few minutes for me to catch my breath, and start the car again. I drove home, ran into the house and hugged Nellie as the sirens fell away into the distance, off to another burning house.

As you know, I’m not a fearful person.  I’ve hitchhiked around Europe and sailed around the world and done more stupid, scary, risky things in the wilderness than most people I know.  I was raised to always expect the best, not the worst, and to hold the fearless precept that Everything Will Be Alright, No Matter What. When I faced down an enormous grizzly bear in Alaska, after it popped out of a willow grove and trapped us on a small beach in Glacier Bay, I thought, “Well, this might be the end, and if it is, it’s been a really good run.” I was scared, but I didn’t feel the sheer panic I experienced when I saw that fire truck flash by me, towards my house.

There is fear, and there is fear, and then there is the irrational vice-grip of PTSD. It comes out of nowhere and grabs you and shakes you, hard. And no matter what’s going on in your head, your adrenal system takes over, stomps out any rational thought that you might be trying to hold on to, and starts shouting in your ear, “WHOOP WHOOP PANIC PANIC RUN HIDE ALL IS LOST THIS IS THE END OH NO OH NO OH NO…”

Finally you get a grip on yourself, calm down, and wonder what the hell just happened. Was I really just chasing a fire truck? And for God’s sake, how long am I going to feel like this? I don’t know how long, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about this. There is therapy, of course, and I have a list of people to call. Another list. More calls. More damage control. How long, I wonder, how long?

For most of us, it would have been just one of those wonderful summer nights with friends – great food, beautiful music, and then, a siren that wails off in the distance.  We hear it, we wonder for a moment, and then we shrug it off. “It’s not my house that’s burning,” we think. “It just can’t be.”  And then we go back to our conversation, our friends, our perfect summer night.

I wonder, will I ever feel that way again? Will I ever be able to hear a siren and think, “Oh no, not me. Not my house.”  Not my house. I wonder.

I think that probably all of us who have been smacked by the Great Hand of Disaster wonder, at times, how much we will really mend in the end.  How much are we changed, how deep does the damage go, and will anything ever be the same again? Which scars will be permanent, which will fade, and which will we caress in our old age, with a wistful smile, and think, “Ah, I earned this one…”

When our lives are cracked open by loss, we can only keep going – there is no other choice. But the sirens wail, and we jump at night, and wonder “How long? How long?”

Wishing You a Peaceful Summer Night, Sweet Dreams, and No Surprises,

Andi and Nellie


Posted on July 25, 2011 by Andi
Posted in PTSD | 7 Comments
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