H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
PETER MARTI
Firebreak
“Don’t know how
you folks can live in a place like that
where everything
burns”
the dump truck guy
said before hauling away trash
3000 miles from
our home in the Santa Cruz Mountains where
at that moment
50 m.p.h. winds fanned burning madrone,
pine, oak and redwood.
The forestry
dept. evacuated the Tibetan Buddhist conference center
my neighbors in
safety were on TV, some waving,
some interviewed: “Well
I got up at 5:30 to pack important papers
and the dog—say hi
to Pard.” (camera on Australian
sheepdog)
My diabetic cat went into shock being driven through the flames
The orchard was
on fire
Our teacher had
time only to take his mother, wife, dogs and cell phone
Everyone
gathered downhill at the market to field calls and to check where
the fire was by
calling our friends who’d stayed to fight.
A retreatent struggled to take a heavy metal statue of Vajrakilya Buddha
with her but left
it in the front yard— wrathful guardian covered in ash—
her cabin later
incinerated behind it.
Guilty pang of giddiness
hearing I too might have lost my home
—such freedom!
no
more weddings to cater, eager nervous brides on telephone
no
more aching feet, appetizers or spinach ricotta stuffed pasta shells—
but then dread and
worry—no more income for the center or me…
That night in
the Catskills we heard reports from teachers and friends
everyone up late
eating, drinking too much and sleeping little.
The next day we
began our return no new reports—the Governor
declared a disaster—
but only two cabins and the redwood
wedding amphitheater
gone.
The
conflagration raged through other canyons, our land became the
firebreak, the line 40 firetrucks and forestry crews from around the state
drew in the sacred
dirt.
They saved our
home and everything that would remind us of home
and the dining
hall and kitchen where I work, and the World Peace Stupa
where we’d buried
treasure and swords, guns and broken wedding rings
and the meditation
hall’s thirty-five foot golden statue of Padmasambhava
where we practice
Buddhism to accept impermanence
and they say: Practice as if your hair were on fire...
The inferno was
only a quarter contained three days later
flare-ups behind the
bookstore and above the three-year retreat camp
smoke hung thick in
the oily air but the danger passed
heading somewhere else
for now.
[Originally
published in NHS 2008, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs08/Peter_Marti.htm.]