Controlled Burns

JEFF BASSETT/THE CANADIAN PRESS

It has been one hell of a summer.

That means different things to different people, but overall, I don’t think there are many people I know who don’t attach a certain amount of significance to that statement. The world continues to be under siege from a virus we can’t figure out, and no matter what angle we all take on the issue, it most definitely continues to influence our ability to have a “normal” summer.

For those close to my home, fires have raged through backyards and stomping grounds, causing cancellations to camping trips, family visits, birthday parties. For others, the threat was real enough to evacuate them from their homes. Those I love watched fires light up the night from their patios as they updated the rest of us with photos of the blaze, reassuring us that they were safe. For now.

As long as the winds didn’t change. As long as the rains came.

I watched the drama unfold on social media, and heard of the threats through chats and calls and Castanet updates. Even in Vancouver, the smoke found its way to us, hazing the sky outside our hospital window.

It was a strange summer, no question.

My heart has ached for others that didn’t get the summer they expected. Ironic, maybe, considering how “unexpected” our own summer shaped up to be. Or maybe that is how I have coped – taking my own devastation and projecting it more deeply in my empathy with others. Either way, it has been difficult to watch. To know that so many I care for have felt so vulnerable, or that a season passed by without the same kind of liberated leisure as usual, has been painful. More so than the FOMO I’ve experienced (though that’s certainly been there, too). Because we have all been at this for a long time - hurting and compromising and analyzing and hoping this will have all been worth it. Waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel.

And yet, there is never an end to the tunnel, so to speak. Because our tunnels overlap. Because as we are working our way through one, finding our way out, we stumble into another. Because the cycle goes on and on. The seasons change, and the fires will come again.

And wildfires, in particular, are a natural part of healthy ecosystems. The earth needs the nutrients that are released in the burn, like nitrogen, sulfur, carbon. Fires open up the canopy, letting in life-giving sunshine to light-loving vegetation. Fires release seeds from pine tree cones and rid invasive species.  They clear out dead organic material – decaying matter that can choke outgrowth of small plants and prevent organisms in the soil from accessing valuable nourishment.

But, of course, there’s risk with reward. Animals lives are threatened, as are their habitats. So, too, for human beings whose homes and neighbourhoods exist in that fragile environment prone to drought and combustion. But there is an inevitability in these areas – a cyclical nature that requires “spring cleaning” in the form of infernos.

In other words, in order for renewal and growth, first must come the destruction – the breakdown before the breakthrough. 

Controlled burns are crucial for mindful management of ecosystems such as these, as they proactively reduce the threat of larger, more destructive consequences from natural wildfires. It is an act of deliberate regulation of danger and risk. There are always going to be fires. There is always going to be 

cyclical devastation. But if we can get out ahead of it, we are less vulnerable. 

This is how we all try to approach our lives, but we don’t always succeed. No matter what we plan, no matter what we try to regulate, “nature” has its way with us. There are bigger forces at play in this life that consistently remind us of how fragile it all is. How little we are able to control. How little our efforts can, in many cases, influence outcomes, even with the best of intentions.

So what are we left with? Fear? Anger? Despair?

If we chose. And that, in the end, is where our power lies. If we can’t control outcomes – if it’s all going to burn anyway – at least we can control what it means to us. 

Wildfires are both a blessing and a curse. They are both a threat and a salvation. They are a necessary part of the rebirth of the landscape we live in. And things need to be reborn. They need renewal. They need to evolve and move forward.

Maybe it’s easier said than felt when it is our own homes, our own loved ones, in danger and peril. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s when it becomes all too clear where are true power lies.

For those still breathing in the ash of this summer’s devastation (metaphorically or not), I pray that the skies clear and that we can all feel the warm autumn light with peace and gratitude. We can never return to what was before. There will always be “new normals”. But this is a good thing. Soil gets richer, the decaying is cleared away, and we make more room for the light.