“Be Grateful You’re Alive.”

To all who are saying “be grateful you’re alive” to those who lost their homes and belongings—

Our things are an extension of who we are as humans in this life. And it strikes me as another form of spiritual bypassing to not honor the very devastating material loss that people are experiencing.

We pour our hearts into the objects that create a space of nurturance, safety and comfort. The objects we treasure hold pieces of us, of our experiences here on earth that create what we call a life.

A beloved used farm table found in a garage sale that has hosted many gatherings of loved ones over milestones and also many mundane dinners.

A photo of that one night dancing with your friends, cementing decades-long relationships.

A rug that your mom gave you that belonged to your great aunt whose shares both a name and eclectic style with you.

When we lose these things, we lose the physical tethers of the love, devotion, creativity, gratitude, joy, bonds that these things represent. A physical home is filled with all of these things — they are what turn a house into a home.

Yes, our memories hold these frequencies, too. But as human beings living in this material plane, these things are part of a living altar we create around us to maintain these frequencies within us. They are totems of our hearts.

A house provides safety through its formation of raw materials that creates a shelter from the elements.

But a home provides comfort, security and belonging as it creates shelter from the emotional turbulence of our modern world. Our homes anchor us and remind us of who we are, who we call kin as we are held in the frequencies of the artifacts we have collected and placed around us.

As I look around the space of this DTLA loft I have lived in since 2009, just four days since the fires broke out, I see three skulls — deer with antlers, bull, cow — that I had collected from my first solo roadtrip around the country in 2012. A defining roadtrip that helped me step into my power and be reacquainted with my curious heart as an independent, single woman of color.

I see the macrame piece from our wedding in 2017 hanging behind the skulls. A day so filled with joy for me as I hear the echoes of laughter and music in my mind, seeing all of our family and loved ones together this one night in a way that will never happen again.

I stare at the window and can still feel the presence of Mother Tree, a California pepper tree that used to sit just outside our third floor loft window, the only window in this unit. This tree died in 2022, and I was devastated when they pulled her up, the grief still welling up as I think about her. She had held space for me as I cried to her about my heartbreaks, my frustration in my career, my loneliness. And yet her spirit is still here with us in this home.

As a deathworker, I think often about our attachments in life — to people, to things, to memories. And I have worked to try to release my attachments, even attachments to outcomes, to alleviate suffering.

But these fires are showing me that attachments to the things that bring us joy and comfort are part of being a human. Instead of releasing attachments for fear of suffering, I’m leaning in and cherishing my things, my home, my people, my life.

And when they’re gone, my heart will shatter and I will grieve them. I’m no longer going to fear that loss, because that keeps me from fully enjoying and appreciating them.

The material is just as important as the spiritual. The material holds life. So when that life is gone, we give ourselves to grief completely. There is no “be grateful that...”

No, there is only “My heart is with you. This is a devastating, irreparable loss. I’m so sorry.”