Having been involved in the recent Wooroloo bushfires, and knowing there are dozens of families wrestling with the fact that their homes are destroyed, contemplating how to even process that, let alone rebuilding and moving on, reminds me of the night my world ended.
That same night I recognised later that — with deep reluctance — a new life began.
It was 22 September 2003. I was coming down with a head cold on the day that I learned that I’d been unsuccessful in getting a national occupational health and safety manager’s job with Shell Company (I was a state coordinator applying for a promotion). Bizarrely, a week before that, as I rode the taxi to the airport from my interview, I had a very prophetic ride that day; the taxi driver reciting a riddle for me that would prove insightful for what was about to occur in my life. I had absolutely no idea what was coming.
There I was, having put the kids to bed, at 8 pm on a Monday evening, when my wife returns home, and I am about to receive the shock of my life. The marriage is over. There’s no coming back. Couched in terms of temporary separation, but really I knew it was much more dire than that.
That threw me into such a deep spin, and I can tell you, like sliding doors, my world changed instantly, forever, no coming back. So many who will read these words will say, “Yep, I know exactly what you mean; something like that happened to me, too!”
You never really prepare for such news. Like so many events in life, there is no preparation, like the moment one of your children is born, or that you learn of the sudden death of a loved one, or as the present case may be, it’s the death of dreams and memories and financial viability, and where every physical possession you own is gone to ash in seconds.
Of course, there are no real words for such occasions, as speechlessness carries us into a void of cognisance for numbness. It’s the very real state of consciousness that seems like unconsciousness except for the driving pain of it all.
Right there, in the thick of muddy mire, the only thing you’re aware of is that you exist, and that is the most painful reality of all; to exist when you least want to. Sorry if these are deathly words for you, but they are the truth.
I recall many mornings and afternoons and evenings after September 22, 2003, where upon waking, my dread was all too real, as I realised I was waking up into my nightmare, and the amount of panic attacks I had in those days showed me once and for all that there are realities that are far too big for any human to contemplate.
These realities do break human beings, and it doesn’t matter how much faith you have. The death of dreams, of hopes, and the materialisation of darkest thoughts, without the ability to contend.
Too many people have experienced this kind of existential crisis whereby life is brought to death in a real living sense. It’s only when you arrive at this point that, if the eyes of your heart are curious, you see the myriads of suffering over the earth. Nobody likes to see such suffering, but the true blessing is we see, for the first-time, what God sees.
For the person who has lost their home, for the one who has seen every precious possession go up in smoke and remain there either only as a memory or as ash.
On that Monday night most recently, when the fire swept through the area immediately to our north so swiftly it took a lot of people by surprise, we were on Fire Warning level for long enough that we surveyed the house and packed a few items ready for evacuation.
Suddenly it dawned on us both that it was a token exercise; we’re most of us so materially blessed that we cannot possibly save even a small amount of the precious objects we collect throughout our lives.
The more I looked in just about the smallest room in our small house — my study — the more I realised just how many precious items I own; books (over one thousand of them), framed degrees, dozens of precious keepsakes, hundreds of little thank-you memorabilia, and lots of oddments from childhood onward.
The older we get, the more we collect. Not a day goes past that I don’t contemplate leaving all I possess at my death, but I’d never seriously contemplated losing everything in a fire, flood, tsunami or the like.
But we did collect the token things — photo albums and trinkets — and parked them at the front door and then went to bed.
We were awoken an hour later with a call from a concerned family member. I shot off a text to a colleague and was soon assured that the fire was far enough away. Just living with the imminence of such a threat as an imposing sea of radiant heat and burning flames is, however, enough to cause a lot of latent anxiety.
I know there was a whole region in our city — probably 400,000 people or more — who lived with the thought of impending calamity for a week; either for threat of destruction of their own home or being sick with worry about the situation of loved ones determined to defend.
Our hearts break for those who lost their homes. It’s incredible to also consider those who fought fires in their local brigades AND lost their homes. There are no words.
And that’s what this article attempts to communicate.
Nothing prepares you for what changes your life in an instant. Nothing. No thought either now or anytime in the future. But when it does happen, suddenly your eyes are opened with such new revelation that that old life burns away in cinder leaving a void that can only be filled with a completely new life.
It’s accepting this new life that we find is our biggest challenge. Seems simple from afar, but when disaster comes close, we find it’s the hardest thing we’ve ever done.
But when you have no option, you make something of that new life, and hopefully you find your way back to a deeper gratitude. All this requires a lot of work of surrender.
Enough said.
Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash
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