Ash is not life.
I learned about this in August 2023 from the funeral director who was preparing my mother’s cremation. The organic matter in the human body was said to evaporate when burned hot enough, leaving behind a crushed inorganic material called ash.
So what I call “mom” is actually a pile of inert minerals indistinguishable from other people’s remains. If you put it in the ground, plants will grow around it but not through it.
But these ashes mean something. They are the final, heartbreakingly inadequate, concrete proof that my mother existed. They are artifacts that help me reflect on life before and after her death.
I thought about it as ashes from trees, homes and properties destroyed in the Eaton Fire in Altadena covered sidewalks, cars and everything else left outside during last week’s apocalyptic storm. I thought about it. My family lives a few miles downwind from Altadena, but on the night of January 7th, conditions seemed so extreme that we too had to evacuate. To our east, several homes were gutted by ignitions likely ignited by embers blown from Altadena.
My niece in Glendale, who is far from the source of the Eaton Fire but is under greater threat than us, took shelter in her home. Many people fled, including family, friends, and high school classmates. Some people lost their homes.
Their loss is real and cannot compare to the mere pain felt by those of us who still have a roof over our heads and schools for our children to attend. Our suffering, if you can call it that, arises from empathy. From their experiences as merciless bullies.
But the collective trauma to Los Angeles, especially the communities near Altadena and Pacific Palisades, is undeniable. The ash that fell on us for days was a physical reminder of the destruction before our eyes, and in that it was merciful.
Almost two weeks later, Altadena’s ashes remain in crevices in sidewalks and hard-to-clean areas in her neighborhood. Otherwise, you’d think a group of smokers didn’t clean up after themselves. Or, if this is a more “typical” fire deep in the mountains, it could be debris from brush and trees blown down from the Angeles National Forest. That happened during the 2020 Bobcat Fire.
The situation is different between this and this fire.
While driving my family’s minivan, I used the wipers to remove dust and dirt from the windshield. And I remembered the remnants of other family lives that I had casually brushed off. Perhaps these spots were once family photos, or diplomas hanging on the wall, or pages from a hymnbook in the burnt-out church where my wife’s colleague’s spouse was the pastor. Maybe.
Which house’s ashes are the neighbors sweeping the driveway and scattering?Among the ashes are those of the Altadena classroom where my wife and I took our children to Mrs. Henry’s early parenting classes. Is there something? From the house on Christmas Tree Lane where the railroad model makers happily entertained my children two years ago?
These ashes, remnants of Altadena’s trauma, were being blown around us by the wind. And as we grieve the remains of a deceased loved one, these things may prompt us to consider the following questions: What now?
In the 1950s, my grandparents settled in a modest bungalow down from Glendale’s fire-prone hills and valleys. Living in a place with a view of the mountains reminded me of my hometown in Norway. Has the sense of security that once allowed them to trade with nature, perhaps the quality of life typical of Los Angeles, now gone? Have we released so much carbon into the atmosphere that what was once “just far enough” from nature is today “too close”?
Thankfully, these ashes are not from life. And judging by the GoFundMe page and the promise of rebuilding, the heartbeat of Altadena’s heart is still there. Plans are being made to relight the cedars in Christmas Tree Lane as soon as possible to demonstrate the resilience of the community.
But I hope we don’t completely erase the memory of these ashes. That long after the widespread collective trauma subsides, the people who have lost so much in Altadena, the very essence of life in that community, will still need our help. It may help remind you that you are there.
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