One lightening storm one evening. No rain. July 17th.

A summer irrevocably changed with

a multitude of fires lit across the landscape of the Kootenays.

Some extinguished within hours or days

Others turning from smoulder to raging fires

And this valley here, goes from a peaceful easing into summer after a long Canadian winter and a lush green spring

To sudden activation and prolonged uncertainty upon a backdrop of endless days of hot sunshine hidden by smoke, and drying earth.

On high alert for days and weeks

We enter a drawn out state of the liminal

Checking every breeze, every app, every possible raindrop (there are none), every cloud formation and smoke trail

For telltale signs of direction, fierceness and likelihood

Of sparks, fires coming closer to our homes and community

Flurries of packing, what is precious, what is not?

How do you decide? Beyond the obvious decisions of photo albums, laptops and passports,

Random choices made quickly.

Is this really a favourite dress worth keeping or not? Would I miss this painting or forget it ever hung on our wall?

The longer the evacuation alert, the longer such questions, the more the packing.

We stand on our decks and look up and around. Sometimes every half hour, sometimes more.

From our particular perch we have two fires in view — Mulvey Creek and Ponderosa are their names.

One to the left, one to the right.

One a ridge over, the other a creek away.

I find myself doing odd things, thinking funny thoughts.

I vacuum the house in case we need to leave

And catch myself wondering: who am I cleaning it for?

For our family’s return as a welcoming doormat?

As a spell cast, because some magical part of me is convinced that a tidy house is less likely to burn?!

To will it to safety through this mundane task of care?

Neighbours and friends rally

Welcoming with such gracious generosity pastures for horses, pens for sheep and whatever livestock needs moving

Storage spaces, parking lots

Checking in and sending their care.

Each gesture such balm.

Then evacuation order.

Many leave, some stay.

Lines drawn across a once flowing landscape.

Now we have a local border.

A line that divides those who can move freely but must camp at friend’s houses and use makeshift arrangements for unforeseeable futures,

Their homes entrusted to the wildfire services, the sprinklers, the winds and the weather,

The seeming untameable flames,

And then those who stay to defend their slices of home against such forces, and offer on-the- ground updates of a community and its surrounding mountain flanks shrouded in layers upon layers of smoke.

Social media — that minefield where madness and connection, reactivity, blame, and generous love, information, offers of help, rumours, hopes, fears and dreams all tumble together —

tethers everyone across all lines, at least those who dare venture into the

soapbox for all.

Who are we as a community when under duress?

What rises to the surface? How decent are we as a collective?

I find myself heartened and dismayed, for we show up both beautifully and hurtfully. Truths and untruths are told. Finger pointing darts of blame, intelligent inquiries, and thoughtful embraces are shared.

I notice my varied and ever-changing relationship with fire:

Commanding prayers that the fires are balanced by moisture, rain, please rain.

Tentative sensing into fire and getting a glimpse of its energy without bounds, its cleansing power, its suppression finally finding expression

Wishful thinking, focused invocations, visualizations of pouring rain

Coming at it with the calm clarity of a mother

The frantic supplication of a fed-up kid

The acceptance and surrender of a tired human

The renewed effort to somehow, in which ever little way, support the efforts of those on the ground and in the air, with all the subtle energetics possible, including a thumbs-up to every helicopter passing overhead, and blowing kisses to each firetruck driving home at the end of another day.

Exhaustion hitting daily in the middle afternoon

Slammed by ten thousand worries that couldn’t find a doorstep to rest and release,

but gather up to overcrowd the system once every 24 hours in a fatigue so great the only solution

is a nap

With the tired crashing over me like a giant wave under which I can’t move, I am plastered to horizontal and so very thankful for said recline.

Busy while doing nothing

For weeks

What happened to my life, my focus and work?

I scrape through the main to do’s, keep the professional appointments and show up.

The rest, I let go.

For I am so busy doing nothing else but willing this community safe from the wildfires, comforting and assuring my loved ones,

And checking all the apps and weather forecasts again and again, as if I can will some rain and the right direction and intensity of winds (calm is good, smoke weirdly is also good for it means calm winds)

By staring at the little screen long enough.

When — unrelated to the wildfires to our left and right — a neighbour’s house lights on fire halfway through the evacuation order, Monday evening August 5, with dark black smoke raging sideways across the sky (what are the frickin odds of that happening?!)

We all slide to the edge of our capacities, while frantically and helpfully texting amongst affected neighbours, and breathing

We pace and pray out loud

We huddle in a pile

We sail on the precipice of howling laughter as we startle each other walking round a corner, our nerves on such edge it takes nothing to ignite helpless release of tears camouflaged as cackles.

Thank God for the quick neighborhood response and the local fire brigades, a few hours later — nerves shattered, adrenaline exhausted — we hear it has not spread, the fire is out, and we go to bed, relieved and more exhausted. Some of us hitting a wall of fury (enough is enough) the next morning, with unsheltered grief close behind. And fatigue. Deep fatigue.

Through it all, again and again, whispered and out-loud gratitude for the grit and grace, the bravery and courage, the generous service and diligent intelligence of the

firefighters;

The heli pilots;

Those discerning best approaches through maps and shared knowledge of fire behaviour in this particular valley and elsewhere;

The local community forest SIFCo that has foreseen such a summer when hardly anyone thought this could be possible, and spent close to two decades preparing the valley with wildfire interface management for this;

The communication officers, the road patrol, the volunteers;

Those behind the scenes we may never know by name, thank you!

The cooks and those hosting the resiliency centre that celebrated its opening four days into the fire (weirdly perfect timing);

And all the feet on ground, hands reaching toward one another, care spread like soothing blanket across this valley covered in smoke and stress, as well as neighbouring valleys in similar predicaments.

We share text messages with check ins. We delight in any headway made to save a beloved community from the fires. We cheer each other on. We send updates to friends near and far, they too sending prayers for this gem of a place.

There are many days when it seems we might be turning a corner.

But we don’t. The weight continues.

The fires keep making their fiery way, some moving further to the back mountains where wildlife will be fleeing and floundering their way to safety (may they find sanctuary)

Other fires crawling closer night by night as the flames move downward. We are just one strong gust away from sparks flying across a creek or over a ridge to bring imminent danger to doorsteps.

One person’s favourite wind direction

May be another one’s sorrow

Depending where we stand, where we call home

And over the days, a generous surrender rises: celebrating every raindrop even as none fall to our feet (as long as somewhere in a neighbouring community fire is quenched we are thrilled), rejoicing in every wind direction that brings someone — human and animal, plant and earth — respite. It all matters.

As a valley collective we have been holding our breath

For almost a month.

Ribcages tight from worry and smoke

Managing, doing ‘fine’ when all it takes is a little bump to be reminded how on edge everyone is.

How resilient we humans are. And how wildly tender too.

And then the magnificent day, the news that all valley communities are no longer on evacuation order.

Just on alert — a state we have all become so used to that it feels like a weird relief to simply be on alert.

Fires are finding containment, at least on some fronts.

Fire guards and hose lines, back burns and wind directions, heli buckets of river water and the fire burning itself a path away from the valley floor… all these and more contribute to the fantastic news:

Everyone can return home!

Water the gardens. Touch the familiar surfaces. Check in with the neighbours. Do the laundry. Settle in together and alone.

Whole villages. Uprooted and deserted now coming back into daily co-existence.

And the sobering update that a few homes have burned. The news like charred wood, too hot to hold in my hand, heart exploding in dismay and sorrow that what we all feared has indeed come to pass for some of our community members. May they experience the support of the whole; may grace and courage accompany them as they make their way through the shock and grief.

August 12th I drive to town in the opposite direction of all the homecoming cars the morning of the downgrade from evacuation order to alert (it really should be called an upgrade).

One car after the other, some with trailers, and campers, filled with precious goods as well as mattresses and pillows and all the things that were jumbled up in the rush to leave.

As I watch this caravan of return, tears I didn’t know lay dormant in me rise up and out

So moved am I to see others reflecting back this crazy summer.

Coming home.

I start waving to each one. No idea if they can see me. But I want to say to each one: welcome back, welcome home, you made it, we made it!

It’s been alot.

I feel lifted all day, an inner spring underway, green sprouts of ‘liftedness’ in my veins.

Bless each of you.

May we now release our shared held breath.

May our ribcages expand. Even as the skies are still smoke-filled. Even as it may take days, months, even years to fully integrate.

May we give thanks to all the forces that enabled safe return.

May we learn the lessons — the internal and external ones — so that as a community and as individuals, we come out of this more robust and resilient, kinder and compassionate.

May we let the tears flow. They, like the rain, allow for cleansing release, new beginnings and integration.

May we be gentle with one another. Gentle. gentle.