Heartbreak Everywhere

“True compassion means not only feeling another’s pain, but also being moved to help relieve it.” Daniel Goleman

I waited until the very last minute to write this column this week. I thought if I waited long enough, I might find the words to make sense of what’s happened, and is still happening, in Los Angeles.

I still have no words. I have no words to convey to you what I’m truly feeling about the LA fires, which continue to burn, wreak havoc, and leave everyone in suspended disbelief.

The words I do have are stunned, shattered, heartbroken, angry, confused, and devastated. Pick a word—any word—and it won’t really convey the depth and range of emotions I and everyone else feels. In fact, everyone I know in the city feels something different at every single moment.

Los Angeles is my home. The area that burned and is still burning is my neighborhood. It’s where I live and have lived since I moved to California. It’s where my kids live and where they went to school. It’s where our friends live and have businesses. It’s where my memories live. It’s where I lay my head down at night.

So much of it is gone. So many I know and love have lost everything. Some say it’s biblical. Some say it’s a once-in-a-lifetime fire. Some say it’s apocalyptic. In fact, my son asked me today, “Is this what 9/11 felt like?” I told him it’s impossible to compare tragedies. All I know is that we’re living through one unbelievable catastrophe.

It’s impossible to describe the range of emotions. One moment I’m deeply grateful that me and my kids are safe and that we were able to evacuate. The next moment I’m totally devastated that those I love have lost everything. I’m stunned that the restaurants I eat at, the stores I go to, and the school that my grandkids attend have all burned to the ground.

I, along with so many I know, packed up and took the order to evacuate seriously. We didn’t ask questions, and thank God we didn’t. My daughter grabbed the dogs. I grabbed notes that my kids and friends have written to me over the years that I keep in a box, along with a few photos I’ve saved. There were lots of calls and texts back and forth. “Are you evacuating? Where are you going? Can you get a hotel? Can you get me one? Do you know someone with an extra room not in harm’s way?”

The first morning after evacuating, I found myself feeling both heartbroken and grateful to be safe. I was deeply touched by how many people texted to check in on me, something that has continued all week long. That meant a lot to me when I felt confused, scared, and, yes, alone.

I also tried to check in on others: my neighbors, my priest, my friends. We all seemed to be texting one other the same thing. “Are you okay? Are you safe? Do you need shelter? How can I help you? How can I support you?”

So many in Los Angeles need support right now. They need emotional support, physical support, financial support…support of every kind you can imagine. I know everybody needs support in varying degrees, but scrambling to escape a fire really drives that point home. We need and depend on one another so much.

Thank God a friend thought to get me a hotel room when he was getting one for his family. Another friend who was out of town offered her spare room to a friend who needed help. Another evacuated with her family to someone’s guest room. There are too many stories of kindness and generosity to share. There’s just not enough room.

Speaking of gratitude, there are no words to adequately thank the firefighters working around-the-clock to protect us. These firefighters are risking their lives for us. They are firefighters from all over the state, the country, and the continent. There are no words to express how blessed we are to have them here helping us. We’re total strangers to them, and yet they risk everything for us. Think about that.

We’re also blessed that so many others—individual volunteers and organizations—have stepped to support one another during this time. Below we share the names of a few that are doing on-the-ground work at this moment and how you can help them.

As I packed up my home earlier this week, I tried to decipher what was worth grabbing—what was “valuable.” After I grabbed my kids’ childhood drawings off the wall, I grabbed a small picture of my parents and another one of me and my kids. I looked around stunned. I sat for a moment in silence to take it all in.

My daughter Christina rushed in and said, “What are you doing?! Get up and get your stuff. We have to go!”

I was surprised to find myself just sitting there. I was surprised that I looked around and thought “why grab anything?” One’s health and the health of those around you becomes the only thing you can focus on in a moment like that. At least that’s how I felt at the time.

Since there was no way to go home, and since I was already scheduled to be with my dear friend Hoda on her last day on TODAY, I grabbed a seat on a plane and went to New York for her Friday morning send-off. I knew her last day was a big day—a huge day for her, in fact—and I wanted to be there to support her. I was glad I was there and that The Today Show had me on to talk about all the organizations people could turn to at this moment for support. In a small way, I felt it was a good use of my time.

Support is the word I keep coming back to. Support, caring, checking in. That’s what I’m thinking about as I sit here in a hotel room on this Saturday morning.

My street is still evacuated. The fires are still approaching. I’m getting minute-by-minute reports about changing winds and the changing nature of the fire through my neighborhood text chain. At times it feels overwhelming. At other times it feels like the only connection to the community we have left. I must say, I’m still struggling to find the words.

People keep asking, “Are you safe? Are you okay?” The more I think about it, though, no one is really okay. Even those whose houses are still standing are not okay. People who are alone aren’t okay. People whose kids are out of school indefinitely are not okay. People watching the news on the edge of their seats, hoping and praying a new fire doesn't erupt are not okay. Perhaps the better question to ask someone is, "Are you safe at this moment? And how can I support you?"

This is an event of historic magnitude. It’s a defining moment for Los Angeles and California. Can we find our way forward? How will we find our way forward? Our city and state have to reimagine themselves. They have to give people a reason to rebuild because there are so many reasons to leave. The government needs to get imaginative and creative really fast. I know some people say California disasters are a part of life here, but this is historic.

Look, I know there have been tragedies in North Carolina, New Orleans, and so many other parts of this country and world. So many of us have lived through something unimaginable, and this may not be the last time it happens. We never know what someone has been through or is going through, which is why we have to tread gently with one another.

When my mother was in the ICU years ago, a nurse there told me "we don’t compare tragedies." “You need love and support as much as the person in the room next to you,” she said. I thought that was so wise and empathetic, and especially in this moment I know it to be true.

This week in between news reports on the fires, I watched former President Jimmy Carter’s funeral on TV. I heard his grandson speak to Carter’s concern about the growing chasm between those who have so much and those who have so little. As he spoke, I thought about the chasm that exists between so many of us in this country. There are so many of us who feel separated from one another for all sorts of reasons. In addition to a financial chasm, there’s also a geographical, emotional, and political chasm that exists.

This week I also read the surgeon general’s final letter to the nation in which he urged us all to rethink how we are living our lives. He urged us to focus on relationships, service, and purpose.

Weekly readers of this publication know that relationships, service, and purpose are the very foundations of living a meaningful life. We speak about those values a lot here in The Sunday Paper community. We also speak about faith, love, and caring. All of those values are the bedrock to a meaningful life. A life that is so very fragile. A life that is ours to create, to design, and to live out.

I agree with the surgeon general. It’s time to rethink how we live on the vulnerable planet. It’s time to rethink how we care about one another, love one another, and stand with one another. I, for one, am so exhausted by all the rancor, the fighting, the judgment, the hate, and the division.

At the start of this new year, I chose “enough” to be my word of the year. I thought to myself, “Wow, Maria, you finally feel as though you are enough. That should be your word.”

But even before the fires, I decided to change my word to “care,” as I want to be a part of building a more caring and loving country. I want to be a part of building a more caring and loving community. I want to care for others and care for myself. I’ve noticed that I like when others care for me and about me. It helps me. Care is something I feel we all need more of, and now nothing could be more true.

My friend Elizabeth, who lost everything, recounted a story to me of being in Target. When she asked if they had support for fire victims, someone behind her offered to buy her toiletries. She burst into tears. She told me her mind feels like a snow globe right now.

Fragments are indeed flying everywhere. It’s hard to think straight or clearly. A friend who evacuated to Manhattan Beach said it was so surreal to be there, as people were going about their business as though nothing was happening. It’s like that, isn’t it? Things happen to those living in disaster zones, and meanwhile the rest of the world carries on. That doesn’t mean others are oblivious to what’s going on, but…it’s different.

In closing, if you know someone in LA who has lost their home or been evacuated, let them know you care about them. Reach out and leave a voicemail or text a voice note. My daughter told me that nobody leaves voice messages anymore, but it’s not true. To hear someone’s voice telling you that they care about you—that they’re thinking about you and that they love you and are here for you—is priceless.

People are in shock. People are shattered and numb. My friend said to me just moments ago, “I’m homeless. I’m homeless. I’m homeless. I have nothing.” I told her that she has me and my family. It was all I could offer, along with whatever clothes of mine she could take. It’s ironic that the book I’m releasing this spring is about heartbreak, healing, and finding your way home. That’s the story of this week: heartbreak everywhere. I pray that there will be healing. I pray there will be stories about finding a way home. I’ll be here to share them with all of you. Doing that keeps me moving forward.