I have been thinking that we may have reached the chronic, as opposed to acute, stage of our forest fire saga. For many of us, evacuation orders and alerts are rescinded, at least for now. For others, there’s at least a system to check on livestock and land. People are making plans to sustain a café for the community. Some of us have unpacked part of our go-bag. There is even a schedule of events, even though they’re not the events usually planned for August. 

Unless this weekend’s weather starts everything up again, we’re hitting the slow slog. It’s much less glamorous and a lot more difficult than the intense push. The losses begin to sink in; the weeks of high anxiety catch up to flatten us. Personalities rise to the surface, people get their feelings hurt, old animosities rear their heads.

But there is another story besides destruction and loss, one that shimmers in the background, never obscured, like a scent or a taste that lingers so vividly that you’re not sure if it’s really there or if you’re just remembering it. That story includes a series of free community dinners starting with Thursday night’s “Leftovers Feast” where we finished off whatever the firefighters didn’t eat. That story includes the outpouring of muffins and cakes and meatballs and gluten-free meals individually prepared by a fellow celiac. That story includes local firefighters and volunteer dishwashers and loggers and servers and greeters and the YRB guys and the ten folks that gathered Wednesday night for meditation. That story includes the many who send prayers and cheques, the food bank, the Hub, LACE and SLAC and the FB admins and moderators and the United Church. That story includes the village staff and councillors, the businesses who kept it together when we were all afraid. That story includes the short note I got last week from a longtime friend, a note that pierced my haze and made me cry. That story includes the hug, the look, the touch, the offer of help, the cup of coffee, the diligently washed dishes, the remarkable calm of the women running food services. 

I don’t know what we are witnessing here, in our environment. I remind myself that witnessing isn’t about the future, but the present. So I try not to worry about what’s next. For sure, the weather is erratic. Alternating between hot/dry and wet/cold does not work well for this inland rainforest—nor any other place in the world. Some new stability may not come for eons. I could complain or be fearful (and I’ll probably do both). But witnessing to the world, as it is, seems like the better choice. And as I witness, I lay back in the arms of the Beloved and trust. I don’t trust that everything will get fixed the way I’d like it to be fixed; I trust that all is held in the Infinite Love. Regardless of what the future holds.

I am remembering a conversation last week, on the day that the park caught fire. Two friends, both wilderness hikers, were horror-struck as we watched, overwhelmed by the probable loss of beloved back country. It hit me that we need to learn to love not just the green glade, but the bare rock, the fallen trees, the ashy ground. These too need respect and an open heart (as do the crazy neighbour, the competitive do-gooder, and our overwhelmed selves). 

I am holding onto the fact that it is in the ashy ground that fireweed grows—that delicate and edible beauty; that vegetation that prepares the ground for coming trees. 

Fireweed also produces the most delicate honey I have ever tasted, which seems fitting. When I look at fireweed, I see the beauty that arises because of destruction. And yep, that is what is happening here. Thanks be to God.