If you've ever stared
close-up
in shocked disbelief at the flames and the gigantic, sooty cloud of
smoke a wildfire produces
(the "Carr" fire of
July 2018
in Redding California became known aptly as a "fire-nado", given the
jaw-dropping
spectacle it generated in the sky),
you know what it is to have experienced a visceral twinge of
fear
(if not abject terror, depending on your proximity to it) that's
automatic for us humans when our survival is really threatened (and
even imaginarily threatened).
It was the much closer (right on my doorstep actually -
literally)North Bay firestorm of November 2017
that changed many things for me, which is to say it prompted me to
re-assess many things - from how much "stuff" I own, 50% of which I
subsequently discarded (derived when considering what I should select
to save, given that in the worst case scenario, I would not be able to
save it all) to whether or not I should
own a house
again (derived when considering the possibility of
the one I rent
being consumed by fire). But even all that eventually passed, and for
the next two years life continued on again as normal and as ordinary as
it could possibly be.
And then one day last week, almost two years to the month later, I was
up at one of my favorite outposts in the
Napa Valley
atop the north east hills, when I looked south down
the valley,
and saw that unmistakable ominous cloud of smoke from a new wildfire,
rising and expanding rapidly into the blue sky of a clear day.
My first thought, tinged with sheer incredulity and disbelief, was "Oh
(expletive deleted), here we go again ...". Again, that visceral
twinge of
fear,
again that automatic, autonomic response to danger, to threat, to
survival that's endemic for all human beings. Fortunately that
particular fire was
stopped
even before it really got started, given the readiness of the now
always alert fire-fighting teams who've learned the bitter consequences
of not being pro-active enough, from
the North Bay firestorm
and
the "Carr" fire
and other infernos. Then about a week later PG&E
(Pacific Gas &Electric) the local utility
company, shut off power to hundreds of thousands of customers in the
San Francisco Bay Area out of an abundance of caution: tree-lashed
power lines could spark wildfires in the windy, bone-dry extreme fire
conditions.
Was that the best solution? Was it even necessary? Who knows?! I don't
know. The debate rages on. A few things became clear to me though, the
first of which is how civilization pivots on readily available
electricity and running water (and given my water comes from a well
which deploys an electric pump, no electricity means being without
running water too). Without electricity and running water, it's readily
apparent that civilization as we know it, would never have become what
we now know it to be. Nonetheless, if shutting off the power is indeed
a valid safeguard against wildfires, I would gladly do without a
month's worth or more of showers if it means even
one family's
home
isn't reduced to ash (in contrast, all the three-day-long outage
imposed on me was being without WiFi and having my icecream melt).
And then there's the value of the situation. Yes, the
value - if you can bring yourself to see it that way. You may have no
control whatsoever over 50-foot flames threatening to sweep over your
neighborhood. Yet the extreme nature of the situation also serves as a
reminder of your choice of who you're going to be in
the face
of such disastrous
circumstances.
Like a
coin,
it's two-sided: on the one side is a visceral twinge of
fear;
on the other is who you choose to be in
the face
of it.
Two years ago
the North Bay firestorm
erupted just as I was about to fly to Cancun Mexico to
be with Werner in the Leadership Course.
I envisioned the very real likelihood I would arrive in Cancun in
blackened jeans and T-shirt, reeking of woodsmoke, passport in hand,
and nothing else. When I did eventually arrive in Cancun, I actually
did have fresh clothes to wear. In Cancun we spoke
leadership,
not
the firestorm
which I'd left behind me,
to be seen only in my
rear-view mirror.
But I didn't have to speak about it in Cancun. Its remnants and
aftermath would, I knew, be waiting for me to manage when I returned
home.