Fire on the Mountain

The recent wildfire smoke in the Pacific Northwest has reminded me that I’m one of those people who is unusually sensitive to it. Here in southwest Washington we weren’t close to the actual danger zones, but eventually the smoke from the fires near Spokane drifted south. With neighboring Oregon also burning, we’re probably not out of the woods yet—bad pun, sorry.

Rather than fighting off feelings of fatigue and overwhelm—while trying not to cough my lungs out—I’ve treated the experience as an unplanned retreat: an opportunity to observe, without distraction, what is actually arising in my body and mind. I’m fortunate that my family supports me when I need to lie down, rest, and simply be with the experience as it comes and goes.

This time, I noticed something I hadn’t recognized before. Some of the bodily sensations that accompany panic or fear—the feeling that I’m somehow unsafe—seem to reach much further back than I had realized, perhaps even into the preverbal layers of experience. Breathing difficulties were a defining feature of my early childhood. I had severe bronchial illnesses that landed me in the hospital, and from what I’ve been told, there were moments when things looked pretty dicey. I remember long stretches confined to bed with a relentless cough, struggling to breathe, and little company besides a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry.

Those memories surfaced in unexpected ways, mostly in my body. Instead of trying to push them away, I found myself relating to that younger version of myself with a great deal of tenderness, speaking across time with genuine love: “Yes, breathing is difficult. But we made it. We’ve come this far, and we’re okay.” That simple gesture brought a surprising amount of relief. Then we watched some old Godzilla movies.

Still, the feeling of not being able to get enough air is profoundly primal. It reaches beneath concepts and stories. I’m still recovering, but I feel a little better each day, and for now the smoke has begun to clear.

I’m also grateful to have practices—“mental” and physical—that allow me to abide rather than simply endure. Tibetan medicine, in particular, provides well-established herbal formulas and other supports that have eased the worst of the symptoms. Being able to care for myself in this way provides not only physical relief but also a welcome sense of agency.

There is another dimension to all of this that I’ll probably write more about another time. My children are inevitably part of the equation. Wildfire seasons have a way of pulling my mind toward imagined futures and the conditions they may inherit. We can’t know exactly what lies ahead, but we can recognize the causal patterns unfolding around us, and currently those patterns point toward more frequent and more intense fires. Even so, I try not to cling too tightly to projections of any kind. Conditions are always changing. Nothing that has happened can ever be repeated in precisely the same way. The future remains unknown, and the present itself is impossible to grasp.

But enough of the doom and gloom! I also wanted to share some news about Dead Dharma, my forthcoming book from Oxford University Press.

Things are beginning to accelerate. Reviews and feature coverage are coming together in several major publications. A couple of them will be firsts for me, which is exciting, even after William S. Burroughs and the Cult of Rock ’n’ Roll managed to score plenty of refrigerator-worthy notices.

I’m also planning to spend more time out in the world talking about the book. A West Coast schedule is beginning to take shape. An event at Powell’s Books in Portland is nearly finalized, something in Seattle is in the works, and there’s a good chance I’ll be heading to the Bay Area as well, with appearances at City Lights, Kepler’s, or perhaps both.

After half a decade of research, writing, and revision, it’s encouraging to see the book beginning its own life in the world. As always, I have no idea exactly what the future holds. But I do hope that the fruits of this long labor will be of benefit to others.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I mostly hope people have a good time reading it.