“The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.” Ferdinand Foch

A year ago today I woke up with my heart in a my throat in a motel the Red Cross booked for my housemates and I on the outskirts of Boulder. We may have slept three hours over that twenty-four hour period. This is what happened a year ago, the night the house burned down, as far as I can recall.
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Around midnight, I heard shuffling noises upstairs and thought someone had broken in. When I was a kid someone broke into our house and we saw the culprits leaving, their arms laden with our stuff–the tv, a vcr and video games. We were living on the Army base at the time and the soldiers were out of the country in the Gulf War. But that’s practically another lifetime at this point. What I remember of that night was the sudden instinctual understanding that something terrible was happening. I felt that gut feeling the night of the fire once again.

All of us were in various states of undress and distress as we began to congregate out on the street. It was clear someone had called 911 because the fire had already been reported by the time I got through. Two of my housemates were still in the house fighting a losing battle against the candle-induced fire. The entire historic neighborhood was still except for the crackling of the fire, the sudden popping of windows exploding on the top floor. The temperature was in the forties outside and we were barefoot.

My grandmother lives out on the East Coast where it was minutes past two but I wanted to hear her voice. For a few moments I contemplated the fire ripping through the tree branches. The branches hit the sidewalk where I had just done six hours of weeding only a few hours before. I decided to make the call, despite my better judgment. She picked up the phone on the second ring.

I was crying so hard she didn’t know it was me . Paul took the phone out of my hand and calmly explained that our house was in the process of burning down. The firefighters were on the roof cutting a hole into the house to relieve some of the pressure inside. Of course, I didn’t know that until days later…but that’s what was happening.

When we were in grade school we’d sometimes ask each other what we’d grab if there was a fire. Journals? Photos? Our pets? Let it be known that the primal fear a human being has when they know fire is ripping through their home (the moment the smell of smoke reaches your lungs you either fly or fight) may well keep us from grabbing anything.

Before they let us in the house the night of the fire, all the flames out and gallons upon gallons of water dumped on our valuables, the fire marshal warned us there might not be much worth saving:

“Now, you can go back in for a few minutes and stuff…but I’m telling you, there might not be much you want to save. I suggest you make a list and take it in with you.”

The six of us, the former residents of Maxwell House, now homeless and in shock, looked at the marshal slack-jawed.

I took out a half-sized index card, yellow. And began to write:

-journals
-camera
-isobel
-phone
-passport

We borrow shoes from the neighbors and are escorted into the still-smoldering house to get a few of our belongings. Being the minimalist that I am, there wasn’t much for me to get anyway. The situation was grim.

Five hours after the fire started we were allowed to go to the New West Inn motel. We looked like a group of soot-covered gypsies. The scene is grim:

Ricky joined us at the motel. He rides a motorcycle usually but has driven down from the mountains in an orange VW bus. He rings the front doorbell for about 30 seconds until a distraught, obviously stirred from slumber, older woman waddles out to the door.

Ricky’s holding the key to the back door of our house. “Won’t be needing this,” he says. We laugh, sort of, as he tosses it into the trash can. The door is flung open and a Filipino-looking grandmother stands before us in all her bathing robe glory. Her hair is tousled, the look on her face tells me she was expecting us. She meanders towards the desk without so much as a word in our direction.

The Red Cross has told us to call if we “have a problem.” And we have a problem.

“Red Cross tell you wrong price. Price gone up,” she says.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” one of the six soot-covered former tenants of Maxwell House sighs.

I reach for my phone and dial the number we were told to call. The rest of the crew fills out paperwork while I talk to José at the hotline number. He explains he’ll have to get in touch with our case worker. As I’m on hold M tries to seduce the desk lady to let her dog, a dalmation name Isa, stay in the room with her. The desk lady protests, claiming that the dog will “ruin everything” and she’ll have to stay in a smoking room. She then asks if the dog is big or small to which M replies “medium.”

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The next morning we head to the cafe where M and B work. M’s the manager. Most of us are in desperate need of a caffeine fix. Americanos are served up as the story begins to unfold to the three baristas that had to come in to fill in for the girls. The cafe opened two hours behind schedule, and with a queue at the door waiting and wondering what had gone wrong, including the health inspector. While the inspector was there Isa had somehow jimmied herself out of the car and begun doing laps in the front and back of the cafe. In the meantime, M had gotten a ticket for parking illegally outside. Smooth jazz on the speakers overhead neatly juxtaposed the energy of her story. I noticed black half-moons under her eyes, the dirt beneath her nails. My own, cracked and equally dirty.

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Stars (see vid at bottom of post) has this heartbreakingly gorgeous song that begins with the lyric, “When there’s nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire.” That phrase played over and over in my mind for during months following the fire. What does it mean to set myself on fire? How can I do this with more passion, with more intensity? How can I set myself and others on fire?

A lot has happened over the past year. Seeds have been planted, the Spring has come again and this time I am noticing it as it blossoms: the rolly pollies on the sidewalk, the vibrant insides of the peonies, the smell of the earth. New life has come out of the ashes and it continues to grow and grow. It is not material goods, photographs or journals that are priceless or irreplaceable. It’s the life in us, it’s the fire in us, that matters most. The fire was a reminder, an opportunity to wake up and see that life.

(The house as it is today.)

(Side note: Now would be a great opportunity, while you’re thinking about it, to go check your smoke detectors and make sure your fire extinguishers are ready to rock should you need them.)

(If you want to read more of my posts on the fire, start here and scroll through all of May 2007 or read at The Fempire.)