Well, some days it feels like there is not much. But here is what remains: the marigold leaves of the maple tree in the front yard; smoke lazily trailing from the candles I blew out after breakfast; half a loaf of banana bread; the overlook at the edge of the neighborhood where we all congregate to assess the current state of the fires; a few lavender bushes holding strong down the street; roasted butternut squash with a hunk of sharp cheddar; 4th Street, which turns into a veritable dog parade come 6pm; the old crow screeching outside my bedroom window. Maybe these things can be enough.

(Oct. 19)

Today dawned cold and misty. I gave into the rush that a weekend morning free from obligations can give; the person you love is home and the day can be dedicated to making a cozy nest for yourselves. It made me think of a similarly gray Sunday last fall—but that Sunday was laden with papers to write and projects to design, while today remains a blissfully blank square. That’s not to say I don’t miss being in academia. Of course I do, academia is in my blood. Fall feels incomplete without the briskness of rushing on campus through a whirl of leaves, the wind slapping red into my cheeks as I hurry for a coffee between classes. I miss the ability to be so self-driven, having the guidance of mentors and peers but being singularly responsible for the semester’s outcome. Now all that is behind me (unless I go to grad school which…I’m considering). I understand why people say college is the best time of their lives—and I had a mediocre college experience compared to many. When else is the future so utterly limitless? 

But our old lives are so easily romanticized. No sense in doing anything but looking forward. Homework-filled Sunday afternoons are only a memory now—sometimes joy is the absence of something.

(Oct. 18)

Today we watched the beginning of a wildfire. We were in Boulder with a friend, bumming around after breakfast together. Do you want to see where I used to hang out in high school, she asked? Sure, we replied, and she took us up a winding road to a rocky outcrop overlooking the city. At the viewpoint the wind whipped fiercely. We could see in the distance the monstrous plumes from the Cameron Peak fire. We’ve been living in that hellscape, I bemoaned. Anchored like barnacles among the crags were a giggly group college-aged girls shotgunning White Claws—one at a time, so they could film each other against the tarnished landscape. On the other side of the lookout were a bride and groom with their wedding party in full regalia. The bride teetered in the gusts of winds, her carefully coiffed hair pummeling the sides of her face. She looked determined to be happy.

Just then emerged an angry dark gray puff only a few hillsides over, followed by another and another. Could the fire really be that close, we wondered? It wasn’t the Cameron Peak fire at all, but a new one recklessly devouring the foothills. Driving home that afternoon we could see the flames greedily licking their way to the farmland below. At home, we learned that evacuations were beginning just three miles west of us. Of course, wildfires are certainly not something to be delighted about. But for now, we are safe, and that is not nothing.

Did you know that you could wash pillows? Until recently, I, embarrassingly, didn’t. I’ll spare you a description of the dismal state beneath our pillowcases, but suffice to say what was flat and faded is now white and fluffy. That is all.