Meaning of things.
Today, it’s raining. In Los Angeles, this is a big deal. Just two weeks ago, when our foothills were bone dry and the Santa Ana’s, rather late to the game, swept through the city, firestorms destroyed more than ten thousand homes. Along with the rest of the country and the world, we Angelinos followed the devastation on the news; the difference being the smudgy skies that choked us if we dare venture outside. And, that we all knew someone who was affected. I was not in harm's way, I knew that if it reached my house then the whole city would burn.
Devastation at this scale was something I’d seen once before; I never thought I would witness something like it again. October 19th, 1991, the same day I met my future husband, a grass fire in the Berkeley Hills would ignite; fueled by high winds it would ultimately destroy 2,843 homes and 437 apartments. It would come within meters of the art school I was attending at the time. I remember being sick with worry, ensconced in my apartment in San Francisco, sickened by the orange glow that suffocated the sky over the Bay Bridge. Then I had nothing, plus I was buffered by the bay. This time around, I was forced to contend with what I would take if I actually had to go.
I’m a person that likes things, a nester. Not a massive amount, not clutter, but things that speak to me on some level. Maybe it’s the design – the shape, the color, the novelty. Maybe it’s the nostalgia – my shelves house a neat little collection of vintage analog devices like an Olivetti typewriter and a Panasonic Toot-A-Loop Transistor Radio Bracelet from the Seventies that I adore. Maybe it’s the memories that an object triggers, like the pizza box portrait my daughter made in Kindergarten. I love my stuff, it’s a curated museum of my life. So what things would I take? What would I forsake if I had no more than five minutes to run for my life.
I’m glad I wasn’t in that situation, and I hope never to be. My heart goes out to those that actually had to face what for me was a hypothetical question. But as I sat in my favorite chair, cataloging my things, identifying what was actually irreplaceable, I was struck by how actually most of it is replaceable, how little I was attached to. Even the vintage stuff I’ve collected over the years is replaceable. The furniture, replaceable. The books, replaceable. My clothes, replaceable. While It would be devastating to have to start again, it would not break me. In the end, the list that I made on my phone was relatively short. Essential documents, photo albums from before digital times, the pizza box portrait, my journals, were the must haves. The rest would be gravy.
As I was cleaning up my patio after the ash had finished descending like snow, I found a page from a book, charred around all four edges. It was shocking to find this remnant of someone’s life, to think that this was in a home that was now obliterated. I wondered if it was a cherished book or just something that had collected dust and been forgotten over the years. Was it missed? Did it have meaning? As the rain cleanses the air, washes the grime out to sea, refreshes the tattered city, I look around my home, so thankful for what I have. I enjoy the memory and the meaning of the objects that surround me. I care for them while they are in my possession – I’m grateful for those that designed and crafted each one. I love them. But, they do not define me.