A Fallen Oak

First there were the fires. They began so far away it didn’t seem possible they could ever reach our little village of Montecito. They sparked in a rural community most people had never heard of, much less visited. But every day the flames inched closer, until finally we were choking on the smoke and the sky stayed dim from dawn to dusk. We walked around in masks—the first time we had seen them outside of hospitals or Beijing—unaware they were harbingers of things to come.

Montecito is an easy place to live. Crime is almost nonexistent, and even the elderly are spry and bright-eyed. No one associates our gentle, quiet life with disaster. But suddenly the mountains above us were charred black, and we mourned a landscape that had always felt eternal. Still, we were grateful that rain was coming. It would douse the last smoldering embers and we could move on. We’d faced wildfires before; we had always recovered.

What no one truly understood—not until it was too late—was what a debris flow meant. Swept away is the only phrase that fits. Death, trauma, devastation. Everyone felt it, or knew someone who did—someone who lost a house, a garden, or worse, a person they loved. The numbness of shock slowly gave way to acceptance as we rebuilt and, in time, began to heal.

Then Covid hit. Masked again, isolated again, we found ourselves afraid once more. Only now, five years later, has that fear begun to loosen its grip, allowing calm to return. We are just beginning to feel whole again.

And then—one night—a crack in the darkness. A giant oak tree falls. Nature reminding us, in its sudden and indifferent way, that it is unstoppable. That it can shake us awake at any moment. And with that sound, all the old fears rush back, whispering that even in our peaceful little town, safety is never guaranteed.