I’m staring at my Go bag – one of those hiking backpacks with an adjustable chest and waist belt. I packed my passport, wallet, first aid kit, leggings, shirt, two cans of sardines, three cans of beans, a flashlight, matches, soap, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. When I get the evacuation notice, I’ll slide my laptop and charger into the inner pocket, grab my car keys, and run. I’m ready to go. I’m ready.
The Southern California Wildfires began on Tuesday, January 7th. A week later, I sit here, staring at my Go bag. The fires are still burning. I walk to my bedroom, take a jacket from the closet, and set it on my bag.
Wednesday, January 8th. News, news, and more news. This will soon pass, I thought. Southern California has wildfires all the time. I saw the Palisades inferno. I heard about the evacuations, but it’s not here; it’s not at my front door. It’s not real yet. Now I understand why people stay. Natural disasters are like a red-flag-ridden relationship that you desperately hold onto. There are loud and clear warning signs, but the infinitesimal chance of waiting things out in expectation of survival gives you more hope than a departure into the great unknown. I went to bed early. Tomorrow, this will all be over.
On Thursday, the streets were empty. In the evening, I walked around my neighborhood carrying pepper spray. Police services were allocated to the wildfires. A police cruiser raced by, sirens blaring. I assumed they were heading toward the fire.
Friday morning, I went to my usual 6:15 am pilates class. The studio is less than five miles from my apartment, so if an evacuation order flashes across my phone, I will be close enough to return home and grab my Go bag. It feels so wrong, contorting on a Pilates reformer machine in a designer exercise outfit while the city is burning around me and thousands of people are displaced. Yet, it feels wrong to just stay inside, waiting for fire to knock on my front door. I will continue life as usual but I’ll remain close to home until my phone warns me that I must go.
On Saturday I went to my friend’s house for a picnic. Like me, she lives in a section of the city unscathed by the fires. Aside from the faint layer of ash on my car (typical for SoCal) and the barrage of news updates and calls from concerned friends and family, I would have no reason to believe that the past week has been anything other than life as usual. No one else was on the vast lawn where my friend and I sat with salad, wine, and cheese. We talked about work, my recent break-up, her latest trip abroad, and a fashion show we both attended a few months ago. I asked her for information about a hair braider. We laughed. It was nice to connect with a friend. When I got home, I reached out to the hair braider and asked if she was available; she was. I made an appointment for Sunday, then tossed a small container of shea butter, a shower cap, a bonnet, and a comb into my Go bag. Now, I am ready.
Monday was the first full moon of 2025. In the evening, I took a walk around my neighborhood. It was quiet. At one point, I saw the moon staring at me, so I stood still and stared back. Altadena; this wildfire masticating a historically Black neighborhood, one of the first neighborhoods in Los Angeles County where Black people could purchase a home. Did the insurance companies withdraw fire coverage for those residents, too? Will those second and third-generation homeowners be able to rebuild? Will this be yet another oozing pustule in American history where Black people are displaced and systemically barred from state and federal aid?
When I returned home from my walk, I wiped the tears from my face and lit a candle. I meditated in front of my shrine. I sent love and light to everyone who lost their home, their business, their belongings, a loved one, their pet, and a part of themself in this fire. Lord, I pray this dappled version of Armageddon ends soon. Good night.
Tuesday, January 14th. This morning, my supervisor reminded me that I can continue to work remotely if I choose to. I choose to. While sitting at my desk, I looked over at my bookshelf and noticed a palm-size flashlight, one of the swag items I acquired from who knows where. I dropped it into my Go bag. I returned to my desk, glanced at my bookshelf again, and spotted a birthday card from my ex. I dropped it into my bag and then returned to work. A few minutes later, I removed the card from my bag and lit it on fire. New moon, new beginnings… right?
After lunch, I took a walk around my neighborhood. When I returned, I removed my sneakers and slid them underneath the ottoman near the window. Then I looked at my Go bag and moved my sneakers next to them. Then, I placed my yoga mat next to my bag. There’s been an incessant swirl of sirens echoing since last week. I can now tell the difference between the police car and fire engine sirens. It’s impossible to block out that sound. I unroll my yoga mat, meditate in lotus pose for a few minutes, then return to work. I have to attend a staff-wide Zoom meeting in a few minutes.
I wasn’t very hungry today, but I ate anyway. I made brown rice and grilled salmon, one of my ex’s favorite meals. I need to let go. Tomorrow, I’ll make something else. I have plenty of food and water. I keep reminding myself this is not like the pandemic. I don’t have to shelter in place. Instead, I must be prepared for the potential loss of shelter – the loss of everything I own in this world and the sense of safety and security that comes with having a consistent dwelling place. I look around at my things; indeed, most things are replaceable, but what happens after the sudden loss of all things? Grateful to be alive, yes, but living with a hollow space in your heart where family heirlooms, favorite dress, high school yearbook, and memories of family gatherings used to be. Los Angeles, my heart is aching for your loss; all these tears are making my eyes burn. I place a gallon of water next to my Go bag.
On Thursday, I will go into the office. The forecast says the Santa Ana winds will have dissipated by then, and the fire will be more contained. I’ve been working from home for the past week and living alone for the past decade. It will be nice to be around people. Since last week, I’ve been calling friends and family regularly to let them know I am okay. While this connection has been uplifting, it’s no comparison to in-person interaction. I could return to the office tomorrow, but the Santa Ana winds threaten the spread of fire tomorrow, and one day of commuting and in-person co-worker interaction will be sufficient. I will return to work on Thursday. I hope all my co-workers are safe.
Since last Tuesday, I’ve been showering and wearing a clean outfit every morning — a departure from the bathrobe I used to wear while working from home. An evacuation alert may sound at any time, so I must be ready.
This wildfire is relentless and peaceful at the same time. The flames howl and ravage everything in sight. Yet absence from the fire is a lull; from a distance, it is a glowing amber stain interrupting the azure sky. It looks still and seems quiet from here, but it may hawk its fury and claw its flames in any direction.
Multiple theories are swirling about the cause of this event. “Severe drought,” my cousin said; he always complains about the lack of water in Los Angeles. My uncle in Nigeria called me, “Dry vegetation,” he said declaratively. His wife yelled, “Evil spirits.” Romus says it’s arson.
It is essential to understand how this happened to prevent it from happening again. But how can we fully determine how and why this happened through this haze, these sirens, these tears? I step back from the news, social media posts, the relationship, and try to maintain my peace. Peace is paramount. I still must work, buy groceries, pay bills. Neither natural disaster nor heartache stops the world from spinning.
I wish this fire would go away. Forty thousand acres burned, 200,000 evacuated, 25 people killed. I ask the fire: Haven’t you devoured enough? The fire does not answer.
Fire answers to no one. Fire eats, it bogarts, it’s a dumb ravenous thing, it’s an addict. Fire is frantic; it is an insatiable desire to destroy. It is colossal rage. It is absolute. Unlike many people, it fulfills its potential. Fire. You are not welcome here. Go! Disappear! Die! You have taken far too much from all of us.
I zip my Go Bag closed, hoist it upon my back, and fasten the waist belt. It is heavy. Can I carry this load to a shelter? How much longer should I keep this burden near my door? This heaviness on my body? I release the bag and let it fall onto the floor; the weight remains with me, inside me.
There is a weeping mass inside my heart, and even the unyielding distraction of a natural disaster cannot take my mind off it. Why did I stay for so long despite the warnings? When the ash is cleared and the winds have simmered, I will gaze through the luminosity of a healed heart to understand why I stayed in this place of angelic love.
Photo by Daniel Lincoln on Unsplash
