28/2/2009

I think I understand, a little, how it must feel to see your house burned to the ground.

It’s just wrong. There should be a house there, not a pile of rubble and twisted metal.

I stand in my house and it’s like some kind of bad dream. It’s my house, but the walls are black, everything is coated black, even “clean” dishes in the cupboards. Circles of clean, white melamine appear as the cups and glasses are taken out for washing.

My hoarding is exposed to the magnificent women who deal with a mess that appals me, the men who calmly try to clean furniture.

I search for more cupboards to empty out, more trips to the skip. Plastic is all stained and tainted, electrical equipment suspect. As I look into the bathroom I am surprised by the charred beams and holes in the wall and roof. That's not how it's supposed to look.

The house would not have survived if Nev had not arrived when he did.

We are so lucky. We have stuff left to throw out. And precious things that have been saved. And some primal part of my brain is still panicking because my nest has been disturbed. I cope with it most of the time, but when I walk into what used to be my home, my brain freezes.

It's been three weeks since the fire.

1/3/2009

Going into the house was easier today. The working bee that emptied, and either cleaned or sorted or threw out, had left an empty house than only bore a passing resemblance to my home.

After Nev and my tasks were complete, we headed into Yarra Glen for laundry and lunch. On the way down I detoured along Skyline Road. I last saw this road on the Sunday morning after the fires - Cody had wanted to see his dad's place. He was content to look from the road.

The fallen powerlines and trees still burning by the roadside were three weeks gone. The forest now stood, sticks of black with no leaves to shroud the views. Views of more black, patches of improbable green and houses that were no longer there.

The devastation put the stinking chaos in my home in perspective. There was still a roof and walls. It can be repaired. You can't repair a pile of rubble and a few twisted sheets of iron. You can only rebuild.

What sticks most in my memory of that drive are the view across to Steeles Creek, the black stain that had raced across the landscape, and the piece of salvaged sheet metal leaning against what I think used to be Leon's gate, an impromptu sign announcing, "COMING BACK".

No Man is an Island

Happy Birthday to me! 51 today. Woo Hoo!

Well - it was worth a try.

I finally found the time to read the papers that I'd pushed to one side. It made me sad, but as I learned more of some of what has happened, I started remembering my own grief.

I read that Bruno's Gallery in Marysville burned and I mourned the beauty and the whimsy of the place. Bruno plans to rebuild. And I remembered the lyrebirds in our gully. Nev showed me his latest photographic masterpiece, but as I watched I realised that many of the plants and creatures have burned. But the bush will regrow, people keep telling me. It doesn't stop me mourning. Will the lyrebirds ever come back?

And I remembered other things. Spud will never again be able to visit his cousin, Honey, to sniff each other's privates with their tails wagging madly: but always they would touch noses first, the family kiss. And Bindi has not been found.

Then I see the pictures in the papers, I read the stories. I am not mourning a lost parent or child. My house did not disappear in flames. No close friend or relative of mine perished. Just some dogs and lyrebirds. And I've had to move house because my cherished home was too damaged by the fire to be lived in. And Nev's beautiful bonsais have turned to charcoal after twenty years of loving care in some cases. And it hurts.

And when I see the faces of people who have lived through hell and lost everything, I don't know how they bear it. But they do. And we all just keep going. There really isn't any choice.

We need rain. We need the threat to be over. Working in Healesville, I have shared in the anxiety of the town as fires lurked about it's borders and smoke made everyone's throat hurt. Although, perhaps the continuing threat is what keeps people going - there is still work to be done.

The rest of Australia may have had their day of mourning last Sunday, but the mourning continues in these communities. People are beginning to bury their dead. We watch for smoke on the horizon and notice when the winds get strong. Many people are settling into homes which they hope will be temporary while they sort through the business necessary to rebuild. Panga fitted the remains of his whole house into a metal skip that will be carried away on the back of a truck.

You have to laugh. And I don't have the words to say how I feel. John Donne already said part of it :

"No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

. . .

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee."

Where there's life there's hope.

It's the human condition, isn't it? The smoke has cleared from Healesville this afternoon, and my life is getting back to normal. Here I am, back at work again. Yet I feel a bit flat. Yesterday I was strong and positive, today I just want to sleep. Swings and roundabouts. Up and down.

Maybe keeping a blog isn't such a good idea. I want to write about happy stuff, not about wishing things were different.

Where there's life there's hope.

I walked Spud this morning, a couple of hours after sunrise. The sun was hanging, a bloody harvest moon, in the haze of smoke that surrounds us.

It is a week since the fires raged through Victoria. Do they have a name for this one yet, I wonder? Black Saturday? Hell Day? When you compare the death toll with tsunami and earthquake we have reason to be gratefull, but whole communities are trying to cope with trauma. I see my neighbours down in Yarra Glen and the shock is still on their faces. They stayed to defend, and survived, thank goodness, but when the building they were in caught fire, their dogs were too afraid to follow them through the flames to safety, and perished.

There are so many stories of heroism and tragedy. A work-mate berating himself for being a bad father because he did not evacuate in time, and put his family through the terror of the inferno. But he saved them. His family are all alive and they still have a house. When a fire is travelling at 180 kms per hour there is no warning. Survival is the only measure of whether your decisions have been good or bad.

Yet surviving leaves us free to feel guilt. Our house is damaged and uninhabitable, but we have something left. We have the luxury of sorting through the soot damaged trash and treasure that didn't burn or melt. We can decide if something is worth trying to save. When everything is ash you don't have that choice. And I feel guilt that I should feel pain when I have so much to be gratefull for and so little to mourn.

I feel guilt that I ran. Perhaps if had stayed I could have saved the house. But I did not really have a choice. Some primal instinct compelled me to run.

I knew we would be safe in Yarra Glen, but it was a fearful safety. As the town was surrounded by fire, there was panic. I was staying with my friend Jo. Another friend called to ask for shelter. She was coming from Steeles Creek. She drove through flames, wrecking her car, but somehow she and her daughter arrived safely, scared and anxious. Their concern was not for their house but for the horses that would not allow themselves to be loaded into the float and the dogs that had run away. Their concern was for father and husband, somewhere on a fire crew, fighting with the CFA.

Several times I walked to the corner where there was a view of the ridge near my home. I saw the flames come over the ridge and prepared myself for the worst. My children and I were safe, with a carload of precious items saved (including Spud). Nev had called to say that he was safe but would stay with the fire truck, on hand in case they were needed. And I returned to Jo's, trying to stay calm, trying not to add to the distress in the house.

When I was at school on Thursday, I heard sirens going to the fire near Healesville. As my body tensed itself to flee I realised that I was still living that night in Yarra Glen, surrounded by smoke, patrolling for ember attack, listening to sirens move about the outskirts of town, protecting us. The sound may have been one of safety, but I had not yet come to terms with my own trauma. We were safe and well, but those were long hours to fret and worry and fear. I cannot imagine the pain of people whose experiences were more terrifying, the pain of people who have lost someone close to them.

One of the worst things about that Saturday was the reports in the media. We already knew that it was disastrous in our area, yet we were not mentioned in the reports. No-one knew. What might have been happening elsewhere? The house we are staying at now (one of Nev's mates in the CFA was in the middle of renovating it to turn it into a B & B) doesn't have reception for the TV. I'm glad. I am feeling a lot better now, but every time I hear of some new horror I just want to weep. I picked up the papers from school on Thursday, hoping for a long-range weather forecast. I fear, as everyone else does, that this is not over yet. But I could not read the papers. They are buried under other stuff so I cannot see the pictures of people who perished. Survivor's guilt? I'm struggling a bit with my own situation. I can't cope with the knowledge of all the suffering out there. It's just too much.

And the community around me are showing their true colours. I have been uncomfortable with taking charity, but Jo explained it to me. People just want to help. I have to let them. So we have a roof over our head, crockery to eat from, and new clothes for Cody, who lost the most in the fire. (His room was worst damaged at our home, and his dad's house was completely destroyed.)

And so, life goes on. I hope, as the drama fades, that people do not forget their ability to work together as a community. The people united are a force to be reckoned with.