The Year That Could Not Be Written

This has been a year that does not want to be written. Out loud.

First, you all know, pandemic. The disruption. The slowing. The confusion. The rage.

I had an essay in progress about the way my son was navigating loneliness but decided it was too private.

And then, fire.

The Glass Fire took my community, Monan’s Rill, almost in its entirety on September 28, 2020. No one was there to see it unfold. To see it lick and rage and consume. We lost 12 out of 13 homes.

I have written in my journal, and I have written in small bursts on social media, but I have not been able to piece together a narrative of the grief, the enormity, also the hope and possible rejuvenation, and maybe never will.

I am trying to make peace with that. To just let things unfold.

Since it was the year that could not be written, I thought I would give you photos here, instead. But when I started browsing through my photos the waves of grief once again rose. So I am leaving only one, taken at my “sit spot” just last week, where green is emerging from the ash black chaparral hillside. Where the rain is being caught by new life. So I leave you with a beginning, and not an end.

Please be safe. Take care of one another. It is enough.

(If you would like to support the rebuilding and rejuvenation of Monan’s Rill, you can contribute here. Everything has helped, and continues to do so. Thank you so much.)

One thought on “The Year That Could Not Be Written

  1. Emily Dickenson said, “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul…’. Maybe it is also a blade of green, growing out of the scorch of loss. Blessings to you, as you mourn these unspeakable things, and a hope for joy in the morning.


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