Home As Sanctuary
“Home is where our heart is,” my mother often told me; “The house we live in is just a shell.” The reality of this really hit when I was part of one of California’s natural disasters.
The types of natural disasters my community suffered transcend cultural boundaries and political worldviews. Whether we lived in a hovel or in a mansion, a third-world country or Beverly Hills; regardless of our race, métier, or level of education, we all need a home that is our sanctuary from the world. When that sanctuary is lost, disorientation and deep suffering ensues. And while the natural disaster occurred years ago, I still have vivid feelings about the experience.
Enduring a natural disaster can transform us forever, especially if we were directly affected. I am a survivor of both the 2016 California Thomas Fire and subsequent 2018 Montecito Mudslides. While my family and I are safe, my community is forever changed. During the course of the disasters, we had to evacuate six times in one month. We were grateful that our home was okay, but a few of my dear friends were not as lucky.
At the time, I received inquiries concerning my whereabouts from friends and family all around the world. People were worried and concerned. In fact, most of my day was spent responding to these emails, texts, and phone calls. Everyone was worried about our whereabouts and the status of our beautiful home, which they all loved.
I’m not complaining about the inquiries; rather, I felt blessed that so many people cared. I was quick to respond because I also knew that when you put your story out there, in return you become surrounded with love and prayers. Responding to the inquiries was also time consuming, but it also was helpful because we had difficulty focusing without becoming emotional and distracted. At times it felt as if rehashing what happened was retraumatizing. But there also comes a time—and mine was during the disasters—when I needed to engage in some self-care and nurturing. I could no longer put my creative efforts into replying to all the queries I received.
During the Thomas Fire, which began December 4th, 2016 and burned in Ventura and Santa Barbara counties for more than a month, we were in the voluntary evacuation zone. Having asthma, together with a week of wearing N95 masks, I was finding it difficult to breathe inside and outside the house. Ash the size of snowflakes was falling onto our backyard. We finally decided to evacuate to Los Angeles, about 90 miles southwest of the fires. When we returned home a week later, the ash had coated our yard and the house―the windows of which we had been told should remain shut―smelled of trapped smoke. It took my husband and some workers hours to clean things up; but even so, I was extremely grateful just to have a home to return to. After being home for two days, we decided to leave on a pre-planned December holiday trip east.
Just after we returned from vacation, we had barely unpacked when, on Monday afternoon, January 8, 2018, there was a knock on the door. Our dog, at the time, a Maltese poodle always distrustful of men, barked with a particularly angry tone. I went to the glass front door and opened it, “Hello,” I said, “Is everything okay?”
“Well, not really. I’m officer Joe from the Santa Barbara police department. I’m here to inform you that you need to leave your house as soon as possible. We’re expecting eight inches of rain, and because of the recent fires we’re very concerned about mudslides.”
“Oh my gosh; that’s awful!” I exclaimed and thanked him for coming.
I phoned my husband Simon, who was at a business meeting near Los Angeles about one hour away, “You need to come home. We’re being evacuated.”
“They’re overreacting,” he said.
“Well, I’m leaving.” I responded; “You can stay. I don’t think they’re overreacting if a cop knocked on our door.”
“Okay, I’ll come home soon,” he agreed. A few minutes later, Simon called to say he was on his way and when he got home, he would also pack and join me. By the time he arrived, my own suitcase and our two dogs were waiting by the back door. Sometimes we just have to follow our instincts and I knew that it was time to listen to the officer and leave. As had happened during the Thomas fire, I knew when it was time to go and when it would be time to return.
I texted a dear friend—an adored local interior and landscape designer who lived up the road—that we were leaving. She had not yet been advised of the potential flood risk and she wished us well. We were in the mandatory evacuation zone. She was not, yet her home was one of the 64 that were destroyed. I was deeply relieved to learn that she and her husband had eventually evacuated and survived. Three days after the mudslide swallowed her house, she texted me saying, “It’s weird not even having a hairbrush.”
“I can’t imagine,” I answered.
I made reservations at a hotel 15 miles north and got the last room. I thought we would only be gone for a few days and packed accordingly. Little did I know, on that night, half an inch of rain would fall in five minutes, causing the deadliest mudslide in California history―a mere month after we had endured the largest fire in California history.
One would think that natural disasters and difficult life experiences would pave a path to contemplation and reflection, but my initial response was a deep sense of numbness and shock. Some might say that, as people do when faced with any other kind of loss, we disaster survivors will go through what the pioneer in near-death studies Elisabeth Kübler-Ross describes as the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We all experience these stages at our own rate, but together they form a framework for how we can learn to live with our losses.
We were living out of a suitcase for more than a month. I had not been sleeping, and spent a lot of time crying and wandering aimlessly on walks with my dog at the hotel I then called home, wondering if I’d ever go back to my real home. To soothe our nerves, many of the displaced gathered for drinks at the hotel bar, feeling helpless and a deep sense of sadness.
We were all heart-wrenched about what happened to our magical community―that spiritual place where the mountains meet the ocean―and the brilliance and creativity of its well-known people such as Oprah Winfrey, Jeff Bridges, Rob Lowe, Ellen DeGeneres, Pico Iyer, T.C. Boyle, the late Sue Grafton and Thomas Steinbeck, and the many lesser-known magnificent individuals. I mourned for my friends, my colleagues, and my neighbors who lost homes and loved ones in the devastation. I experienced a tornado of feelings.
People asked if my house and I were okay, and my response was, “Yes, I am fine and my house is fine, but I cannot celebrate that when so many others have lost their homes and loved ones.” My family wondered why I was not happier that my house was intact and why we weren’t going back to our part of town, where the damage was minimal. I explained that my heart center, which is always my guide, told me that it was just not time to go back. How could we drive up our lush driveway and walk into our home running on a generator, when rescuers were still trying to rescue bodies, fix pipes, and make sense of what happened?
Further, Highway 101—the major port in and out of town—was filled with four feet of mud, and initial reports stated it would be closed indefinitely. The backroads and alternate routes, we were told, were laden with fallen boulders. Five days after the mudslide, the missing persons were no longer individuals. They were bodies buried under mud. People that were loved and cherished, whom I’d seen about our town in various places, we all gone.
My friend, Jodi, who created lovely homes as sanctuaries for those who lived in them, became homeless when her domicile and all its contents were washed away. She had brought so much love and light into other people’s lives. Just to give you an idea, her Facebook page says, “Love life.” She always finishes texts with, “Have a beautiful day.” And that morning, she didn’t even have a hairbrush.
The questions I kept posing were: “Why? What is there, if anything, to learn from these experiences?” and “Why and how could this devastation happen to my friend and her husband?” Another woman, a pillar of the community in so many realms—from championing human rights, to being a board chairman of some of the most prestigious and humanitarian organizations― also lost her house. The top real-estate agent in the community, known as “the first lady of luxury real estate,” had died. These were all powerful and influential individuals—movers and shakers, now stilled. Were we to take away a message here?
Those who remained in our community were living one day at a time. I was aware that this sort of disaster is part of the human journey. It’s all part of being human and would take time to process. The best thing to do was to remain in the moment, count our blessings, and be grateful for the love and support that surrounded us. In many ways, the experience felt apocalyptic, like a right of passage or an ultimate moment of transformation. One person asked, “Is it locusts next?” Confusion lurked. Panic attacks awakened me during the night.
I dug deep into my psyche and heart center to see what would help and recalled that years prior, my spiritual advisor suggested I do a morning check-in when my home did not center me. This check-in can be done verbally or in writing. It’s a way to categorize and come to grips with chaos. I reminded myself and others encountering trauma to ask these questions:
- What is my body feeling?
- What emotions am I feeling?
- What are the messages from my heart?
- What is my soul/spirit feeling?
My spiritual advisor also suggested that, after my check-in, I send a prayer of hope to enjoy the precious day—and to live towards our higher purpose. So, here was one of my prayers during those challenging times:
Today, my body is feeling confused, but hopeful; my heart is feeling full and open; my mind is feeling analytical; and my soul is feeling like it needs nurturing. And today, my prayer is that my magical community be encircled with love and healing light, and that the people in my community find resilience to together rebuild their lives and expand in joy through the process.
This kind of practice helped me with acceptance and centering, one day at a time which is good to do during a natural disaster and any other kind of trauma that we may encounter.