A few years ago we were taking a road trip home from Colorado when I noticed we were driving through Navaho Nation. They have road markers, you see, just like any other city or state or country. After awhile I noticed that we were still driving through Navaho Nation. A hundred miles farther, still Navaho Nation. When the scope of it hit me, I said “Wow, it really was a nation.”
It really was a nation of distant horizons and majestic mountains and eternal skies that we stole from them. You see something like that and it hits you: the greed, the treachery, the killing, the guilt. How could anyone do that with eyes open? Oh, I know how we do that with eyes open. We do that every day. Ignore the past and destroy the future so we can have what we want today.
One night last week a friend called just before dinnertime and said we should pack our bags and get out. I was skeptical. How can you not be skeptical when it sounds so impractical and unlikely. Even silly, and you don’t want to be silly. Yeah, I know, warnings and sirens and wake-up calls and all that. I sat there paralyzed by the broad daylight and the cloudless sky, and then I got out a backpack, tucked in some underwear, toothbrush, overnight stuff, and oh yeah, don’t forget the important papers box. I didn’t think to pack an extra pair of socks.
Within 15 minutes the evacuation warning came for us, and then after another 15 minutes the mandatory order, and by then we were racing down dark roads with no streetlights, dodging whole trees tossed across streets, looking for any place with a light on, a door open, safe shelter. We drove a long way without looking in the rear-view mirror.
I don’t have to tell you what had already happened in those first 30 minutes. I can’t tell you how many friends, how many homes, how many families, how many yesterdays and tomorrows would disappear before the next dawn, and the one after, and the one after. It’s inconceivable, incomprehensible, unknowable. Even if you drive street after street and mile after mile you still can’t grasp it: entire worlds and generations to come, displaced.
We are lucky. Such a strange word. It’s not as though we got something, or even kept something. We are lucky that we have something remaining to care for, and that we still have so many people to care for and who care for us. The wonder of this madness is how many people reached into themselves to care about godless California and reached out to me to say they cared. If that isn’t miracle enough, there are no miracles.
We are home now.
Our little town was full of brave soldiers, regular folks whose job was to work all day and night for a week inventing ways to keep people from harm. They were helped by firefighters from all over the country and world. I got regular updates from my city telling us to stay away for a bit longer, yes sorry, a few days longer. The winds might whip up. The fire might reignite. There were “hotspots” on the mountain, smoldering embers or deep buried heat, that had to be eliminated.
Not to worry, one message said, the hotspots in the canyon right behind our house were being dug up and put out by firefighters from Navaho Nation. Yes, that one-and-the-same Navaho Nation. It really does go on forever.
Just telling you that makes me cry.
You can forget a lifetime of socks and it won’t matter.
It’s the people. People who lift us up and get us through. Thank you for reaching out beyond yourselves, even if it’s just to care. We can’t let ourselves be turned into the kind of people who don’t care. There are no homes there; there is no nation.
Up here in the rainy PNW, it just defies imagination. Your story told so richly with such brevity, with no images, tells me everything. The last paragraph ripped me open and healed me. I’m glad you’re safe, I’m glad your beloved home and gardens are safe. May it remain so. Thank you for you, Maezen.
Comment by Gretchen Staebler — January 16, 2025 @ 3:56 pm
I am glad to hear that you and your cherished family are safe. God bless. Philo
Comment by Phil Odom — January 16, 2025 @ 3:57 pm
This is stunning. Behind each word, the heavy weights of fear, anxiety, impermanence, grief, community, relationship, gratefulness, selfless service, and appreciation.
It’s a beautiful piece of writing and reflection. No surprise, really. And profound in the knowledge the fires are still burning, and lives forever now impacted. I would like to link this reflection from my substack page—it deserves a wider readership since so many of us are yearning to hear the personal stories of those impacted by these fires. I shall share to honor you, Maezen; but also the first responders, especially those from the Navajo Nation (the full-circle nature of this piece brought tears to my eyes. Grateful and broken-hearted tears.)
🙏🏼
Comment by Kert Lenseigne — January 16, 2025 @ 4:42 pm
Oh Meazen. I am full of grief and joy. Love you.
Comment by Marcea — January 16, 2025 @ 5:19 pm
My parents used to live in a trailer in Shiprock, courtesy of the Navajo Nation. I have been thinking a lot about those days. This helped me to understand what I’ve been feeling lately. Thanks.
Comment by todd — January 16, 2025 @ 5:21 pm
Early on in these fires a friend called it “biblical” in proportion. I’m grateful you are safely home and help is on the way. When I read your story of Navajo Nation and knowing of all the firefighters who came up from Mexico, I get chills. Living examples of deep and divine assistance. I am more determined than ever to be the kind of person who cares. Sending love and healing to you and your family. Deep bow to your resilient heart 💜
Comment by Bonnie Nygren — January 16, 2025 @ 7:50 pm
What a terrifying experience to go through – unimaginable until you are the one in the middle of it. I’m relieved you are safe (for now). Bless the Navaho Nation, and the responders from Mexico and Canada and Washington, and Oregon, all those who answered the call and are still helping people in dire need. I so love how you write and that you write – real experience from the heart. May you and others sharing this experience be safe and may you be held by those who support you.
Comment by Kate Casey — January 16, 2025 @ 10:40 pm
Dear Karen,
Thank you so much for your beautiful heartfelt and humble newsletter! A true blessing that your house ànd the Japanese garden with its very special roots have been spared. It seems the guardian angels have worked overhours transformed as garden angels…
Anyhow, reading your words gave me an inkling of hope in this torn world.
Thank you, gassho
Astrid
Comment by A.M. de Keulenaar — January 16, 2025 @ 11:09 pm
As a child in the US I was made aware of the spiritual understanding of the Native Americans. Hearing about that while experiencing the fathomless width, height and depth of the endless empty landscapes of the US has shaped me long after moving back to Europe.
Your writing here made me cry.
I am so happy to know that you and your family are safe. It must have been quite the ordeal.
Comment by Simone — January 16, 2025 @ 11:19 pm
Karen, I share my heartfelt tears of grief for the loss and joy for the knowing. May you be safe🙏
Comment by Nurah — January 16, 2025 @ 11:31 pm
I have been thinking about you, your husband, your sweet home and garden, so much this past week and a half. All of Southern California has been in my heart. But especially Altadena and Sierra Madre. I care, so many of us care. Sending you so much love, Maezen.
Comment by Maia Zenyu Duerr — January 17, 2025 @ 4:55 am
Thank you, Maezen.
Comment by Keizan — January 17, 2025 @ 5:18 am
I have worried about you, your family and that precious garden since I saw the Eaton fire on the map. I even looked up your street address to see exactly how terrifyingly close you were. I am so thankful that you are back home, and there is a home to go to. I can’t imagine the experience so many others are having, but I always remember that it’s all stuff, as long as the people and animals survive. These fires are positively horrifying.
Comment by Alice Martin — January 17, 2025 @ 9:26 am