A Bouquet of Purple Pansies

And Other Glimmers of Hope

My nightly dreams are usually muddled gobbledygook, as if you took my day-to-day, mundane experiences and put them in a blender with deeper subconscious elements. (The dream sequence in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind captures this well.)

Yet, every now and then, I have a crystal-clear dream—so sharp and real, I could almost confuse it for reality. And unlike typical dreams that fade immediately upon waking, these dreams stay with me.

On January 9th, I drove to Oakland from Los Angeles—“flight mode” sweeping over me at 4 a.m., spurring me to evacuate our wildfire-ravaged city. That night, I had one of my rare, vivid dreams.

In my dream, I walked up to the home of a dear friend, Shari, and tenderly placed a bouquet of purple pansies at her front doorstep. I had been worried for Shari and her family, because their Altadena home is in the epicenter of the Eaton Fire. In the dream, her house was totally fine—no fire damage! It was a miracle.

I was beyond elated to call her and share the good news, as Shari was away cheering on her son, Tristan, who was playing his heart out at the Australian Open, while his hometown burned to the ground. (More on Tristan Boyer’s inspiring and meteoric chapter: here and here. Tristan, ranked No. 136, made it all the way to play No. 8, Alex de Minaur!)

Then, reality slowly seeped into the dream. I began to wonder how I could possibly be in an evacuation zone. I spotted a firefighter and awoke with a start.

I’m not that familiar with pansies, and while I love all flowers, I do not register pansies among my favorites nor see them used in bouquets. So, I googled “purple pansies.” It turns out that a purple pansy bouquet expresses sympathy in times of loss, and also symbolizes compassion, remembrance, loving thoughts, and memories. “They're not just flowers; they're messengers of the heart.” (source: Kiersten Rankel).

It was a powerful reminder that we are all deeply connected in this intricate web of life, and that—even in ways we may not fully comprehend—we are sending love in all its powerful forms to impacted communities.

The Boyer family home is a serene sanctuary, with lush gardens, an urban farm, and breathtaking views of the San Gabriel Mountains towering in the distance like a loving huddle of wise elders. Sunsets dust the mountains in a pink and golden glow. Shari, her husband and two adult sons, and their home mean a tremendous amount to their Altadena community.

Shari is a ceremonialist, trained herbalist, and soon to be published author, and has been studying plant medicines, natural healing modalities, and the use of ceremony in modern and traditional cultures for over a decade (www.shariboyer.com).

Only three weeks before the fires, I had been to her home for a healing listening circle. The very next day, I returned for a hike with Shari in gorgeous Eaton Canyon. We marveled at the beauty of the canyon, including a tree full of woodpeckers—I had never seen so many in one place before! During our walk to and from the trailhead, Shari stopped to chat with several neighbors along the way, and I was struck by how tight-knit the Altadena community is. I will cherish those pre-wildfire memories and trust the area will flourish again one day.

Miracle upon miracles, the Boyer home was spared from the Eaton wildfires! The family is navigating extensive smoke and soot damage, and the dystopian devastation of their beloved Altadena community, yet what a blessing, for their home to have withstood the flames.

Nature, Pockets of Joy, and Community—Fueling Recovery

I am beyond fortunate to have had a refuge from the wildfires in Oakland at my parents’ place. I hiked the gorgeous Berkeley Hills almost every night at sunset on a favorite trail, Stonewall-Panoramic. I forced myself to hike, knowing it would be healing—even though I woke up most days weepy, grieving for LA, feeling like I could barely get out of bed, as the blazing infernos continued to wreak destruction and devastation. Each day, learning of more and more friends who lost all of their earthly possessions, offset only by the outpouring of care, kindness, and generosity blooming throughout our City of Angels.

One evening, I witnessed an impromptu dog park, which overwhelmed my broken heart with joy. A quiet hillside suddenly erupted in the shenanigans of several dogs, yipping, chasing, barking, playing—making me joy-weepy.

My first night on the trail, I saw a majestic great horned owl for the first time in my life. Listening to it call to its partner—hoo-hoooing back and forth like a song until it took flight—was an unexpected sacred gift. The owls graced us with their presence for two nights, and then they disappeared. In indigenous cultures, owls symbolize grandmotherly wisdom. I felt a spiritual presence in those quiet moments, mesmerized by these magical creatures.

I chatted with a silver-haired, wise woman as we marveled at the owls, mentioning that I was just up from LA, my shock and grief palpable. She turned to me and said quite seriously, “Oh my, you are here to recover.”

I thought with guilt: I am safe, my place is safe, I am just escaping and not feeling very “LA strong.” What could I need to recover from? She must have sensed my aversion to her comment, because she repeated it. We didn’t know then that these would become the worst urban fires in U.S. history, burning over 50,000 acres.

But now, I see so clearly that recovery is exactly what I did during that time up north—for myself, for my work of holding space for others, and for the parts of me that held trauma from the wildfires, nestled within past traumas of not feeling physically safe due to proximity to crises—a 1997 terrorist attack in Egypt, being in Washington, D.C. on 9/11, and other wounds from earlier in life.

All of the people I encountered in the East Bay were so, so kind. I felt immensely grateful for the fresh air, for the beautiful community, and for my home away from home with my parents’ home-cooked meals and other expressions of love. I also am deeply touched by being flooded with messages from friends, colleagues, and loved ones who reached out to me from afar.

I will always carry a profound and poignant appreciation for how my time in Northern California came to my aid.

That hike, in particular, will never be the same—just as a great love is immortalized. Now, whenever I hike up and soak in the panoramic views, the scent of eucalyptus trees and melodic birdsongs enveloping me, I will recall my tender heart navigating the LA wildfires, with a sense of heartache and gratitude.

Permission to Grieve

Grief is a sacred expression of the love we have for something or someone we have lost. It is the language of our primal self—crying out in the dark, clutching to what was, while reconciling what is.

As an Angelena, my heart shatters knowing many people who lost all of their earthly possessions, their homes reduced to ash—irreplaceable art, musical instruments, family recipes, photos, journals, plants, jewelry, and other physical touchstones of sacred memories. The invaluable tokens of lives well-lived. Most devastating, beloved community members have perished. Entire communities are gone—schools, markets, and houses of worship. It’s also gutting to witness our majestic wilderness and wildlife devastated—a grief for our earth. And there is a heavy weight of grief for all the trauma that our brave first responders, firefighters, volunteers, and forest service workers are carrying.

When the LA fires began, my own grief felt like a wildfire—rushing across my heart, tangling with fear, sucking up oxygen. I am one of the truly lucky ones—I am safe, and my place in Venice was out of harm’s way. Even still, this experience with grief has been among my most poignant.

After many years of neither understanding nor honoring grief—of shutting the door to grief when she appeared—I have grown to appreciate the transformative power of letting grief in, even when grief feels like 100-mph winds knocking me down and creating a path of destruction.

Grief is painful. It is physical—leaving us gut-punched, with a deep pain in our chest, unable to eat or complete simple tasks, disrupting sleep. (Pain relievers actually help with heartache!) And it is emotional—feeling like we could drown in the pain, even if we dip in just one toe. All the while, messages to be stoic prevail.

Everyone’s experience with grief is different. Some keep grief at a distance to get through a crisis, tending to it only when the worst is behind us. Others fall to the floor, sobbing in full-body spasms of pain, allowing grief to flow. There is no right or wrong.

Just as trauma runs a spectrum from little t to big T, grief too spans little g to big G.

When facing big G grief, we are thrust into survival mode. Grief is ever-present and suffocating. Grief dims our light. We may feel catatonic, depressed, submerged in infinite depths of emotional despair. Grief may be too massive to meet—like a kayak trying to navigate a tidal wave. Often, the passage of time is our greatest salve, giving our hearts and minds a chance to process the shock and initial impact.

When experiencing little g grief, we may feel distracted, unfocused, foggy-brained, or subject to periodic crying spells. We try our best to navigate an ebb and flow of emotions. When grief is present, we succumb to those sharp, raw, painful sensations. When grief recedes, we might feel almost like ourselves again. Yet, the ghost of our suffering hovers—a psychic aching.

Mornings are always the hardest: that split second of waking, before reality seeps in. Before we feel the heartache. Before our minds and pulse race.

We all have different ways of facing grief, and we perceive grief differently. We collect grief like Russian nesting dolls, with new layers activating older ones. Sometimes, the magnitude of our grief is not in proportion to the loss itself, but is instead a reflection of how tender and open our hearts are.

The key is to honor grief. To try to sit compassionately with grief and not push grief away. Not distract, numb, or minimize our valid emotions. Not allow shame gremlins to manipulate us. To allow ourselves to weep. To grieve what was lost.

Some have asked, “Who am I to grieve? I am safe.” I would respond, “Who are we not to?” Let us collectively hold grief for those who are still in crisis, overwhelmed by the magnitude of ongoing devastation. Let our hearts compassionately alchemize what others may be unable or incapable of tending to.

We are all part of this fabric of humanity, knitted together by the enormity of all we deeply love and all we have lost. This is the power of community coming together, a most potent antidote to grief.

For more reflections on grief, see my prior Substack, Alchemizing Grief into Power.