The surreal strength of shock

So, we are homeless, if not landless, and floating on a surging river of love, support and community amazingness. The house is a scarred, charred, barren shell smouldering and creaking like some bizarre monster on a black, black landscape - I'm stunned.

I wake at night and rock with grief at the richness that I/we have lost. I step strongly through the reams of stuff to organise and do. I get moments of elation and moments of total, numb shock. I have a vague guilt - what I could have/should have saved, the heirlooms and precious treasures that I shall never see again and shall not pass on to my children, the unknowing knowing that I have carried, the blithe readiness to move on. Process.

This is to be a gift - I am so clear on that. I am not alone, either in my experience or my process. The grace, generosity and sharing is beyond words.

I was calm in the shower, I had a feeling. I stepped out and went naked to the window and saw high flames charging towards me - ah fire. Even as I heart-beatingly wrestled some clothes on, I calmly checked the file of important papers. Even as I raced through smoke and carried the animals to safety, I was saying thank you and good-bye. My last memory of the single-second moment is sinking onto the tarmac of the road as the flames lept in the rooms, poignantly watching my grandparents wooden bed catch flame through the window.

This was the bed I inherited. My son was conceived in it and has slept in it most of his life. Midnight Oil: How can we sleep while our beds are burning? Prayer, gratitude for the life we lived in the spacious, gracious home. Honouring for the home that had been our stage set for so much.

My last facebook post was that I was rearranging furniture - I had set up my practice room, a new counselling room and a new writing room that morning, the children had changed their bedrooms the night before, C had spring cleaned. I had dusted all my wonderful artwork, polished my beautiful trinkets and treasures. My house glowed with sunshine and sparkle. All the magic curled up to the pale blue sky in smoke.

Freedom, loss. Nothing but ash. And, ironically, the cotton hammock, hanging lazily over scorched earth, the wooden bench under a burnt tree and a metal mask and Benin bust - guardians at each door.

Walking around the outside of the smoky ruins, gaping holes showed our wonderful snugly 'bed' and my new lionheart 'computer' as still-smoking piles of ash. Somebody risked their life to save my ironing board! The window frames were melted and bent. No sign of life. Fire won.

Jeez, we always said our bed could smoke!