What do you say when their house burns down?
Searching for words when there are no words
Chances are good you know someone who lives in LA. If so, there’s a chance that person has just lost their home to wildfire.
If they haven’t lost their home, this person probably knows people who have, and is likely struggling with trauma and survivor’s guilt, wondering if their own grief is even allowed.
What do you say to comfort such loss?
Last week, my cousin Leslee lost her home in Altadena. We’ve traded texts and a couple quick calls since then. She doesn’t have much time to talk so those few minutes on the phone are precious.
I imagine she’s engulfed in a whirlwind of…what? Numbness? Disbelief? Exhaustion? Dread? Bureaucratic detail punctuated by moments of tenderness and black humor, maybe? I’m trying to fathom the unfathomable.
My only model is the grief I experienced when my Dad died in 2020. His death was sudden, unexpected, and catastrophic, and our lives were instantly upended. It felt like the Earth’s poles had switched positions, and I was falling, falling, and everything was quiet, not silent but obscured by white noise.
I’ve since had time to heal and adjust, which is not to say I’m back to where I was before he died. As anyone who’s gone through a shattering loss will tell you, there’s healing and moving on, but there’s no going back.
Despite my intimacy with grief, I don’t know that it helps me grasp what Leslee’s going through. I’m not comparing the severity of our losses — this isn’t the Grief Olympics — but I can see the difference in scale: the overnight disappearance of her possessions, house, neighborhood, community, town. Her routines and felt sense of home.
How do you even talk about something like that?
We Americans lack language and cultural guidance for grief. The last few years have made that abundantly clear. We don’t even have proper tools to understand what’s actually happening in LA. Our information ecosystem is contaminated by misinformation, and politicians who should be helping us come together are instead fanning the flames.
We may not have words — perhaps there are no words — but we can show up. With nothing to say. Just ourselves, awkwardness and all.
The beauty of presence is that it’s available to all of us.
We may not have words — perhaps there are no words — but we can show up.
I got Leslee on the phone the other day and she sounded remarkably herself given the roller coaster she’s on. She has incredible resilience thanks (?) to navigating past disasters, but she’s also dealing with buried memories of shock and pain.
“How are you,” I asked, immediately regretting my default to a ridiculous, unanswerable question.
“How can I help?” 🤦🏽♀️ An equally unanswerable question when one’s head is filled with radio static and a million details.
Inhale, exhale. Try again.
“What can I do right now to make the next 30 minutes a little easier?”
Her answer was immediate. “Tell me a joke,” she said. One of Leslee’s sharpest tools is her wicked sense of humor.
An assignment! Something I could do! I may be the world’s worst joke teller, but I can Google!
We shared a LOL, and for a moment it was as if nothing had changed.
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Notes of note
Leslee’s doing ok and has wonderful support from her adult kids, family, and community. If you’d like to contribute to her recovery, here’s her GoFundMe.
Jimmy Kimmel delivered an emotional monologue highlighting people from all over coming together to help LA residents.
Sharing
’s excellent list of resources again: How to Help LAIn other news,
’s new book, In Defense of Dabbling, is available for preorder! In her book she demonstrates how intentional amateurism is a key to unlocking joy. Read Karen’s post to learn more and preorder a signed copy.
From now on, I’ll end each newsletter with This Week’s Feat of Adulting and This Week’s Delight, because we can all use more gold stars and vicarious delight!1
⭐️ This Week’s Feat of Adulting: I organized our weirdly-shaped linen closet with inexpensive IKEA storage bags. I can now grab a set of sheets without having to empty the entire closet!! *bows to thunderous applause* A feat of adulting is a tiny grown-up accomplishment that deserves recognition (+ a gold star). Share yours the comments!
🍭 This Week’s Delight: MOSS. The best thing about rainy Portland winter is the bright green, spongy moss growing everywhere. It’s like a teddy bear in plant form. Tell us: what delighted you this week?
Beaming you warm thoughts from chilly Portland. See you in the comments.
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Inspired by two favorite books, both by Ross Gay: The Book of Delights [at Amazon and Bookshop.org] and The Book of More Delights [at Amazon and Bookshop.org] (Those are affiliate links, and here’s my policy.)
You are right: We don't know how to grieve, and we don't know how to show up for each other. (But showing up is good! Even if we fumble for the right words.) I suspect we're going to have more opportunities to learn how to do these things. I'm sorry for all that your cousin (and by extension, you) are going through. Congratulations on the linen closet victory! I had a similar triumph a while back with my pantry, also thanks to Ikea products. Feel lucky to have one so close to us. Yesterday my son and I were able to sit outside in the sun while we ate lunch. Sun in January in Portland is always a source of delight!
Sometimes by brain/ soul gets too full of stress to absorb any more. It isn’t shutting down so much as getting a soft filter over any more stressors. I just can’t take any additions.
I did get a laugh this week tho: I’m a tutor for dyslexic students, and they rip through erasers fast. I bought a box of 244 (because for Amazon reasons, it cost less than the box of 12) A child found out that we were having a lesson on my birthday and wrapped up a partially used box of…erasers for me. “Because I know you like them!” Today another child noticed our colorful eraser and asked me if it was new. I told him who’d given it to me, sine the kids know each other. He ran to his room and excitedly brought me…a handful of erasers! (By my count I now have 169 erasers.)