As we step into a new year, we are called to reflect on the cycles of devastation and renewal, and how we engage with the world during such times. This is not a directive or a guide but an invitation to sit with the feelings that arise and explore what they reveal about our attachments—to the material sense of home, what we hold dear, and the very essence of belonging.
I land back in Los Angeles the day before a full moon under skies that seem to exhale in stillness after the chaos of raging winds and fire. The devastation has left its mark: homes reduced to ash, landscapes darkened, and hearts heavy with loss. Mountainous havens where I once found solace now bear the scars of fire, a stark reminder of nature's power to both create and destroy.
Only days ago, I was in the lush jungles of South Africa, surrounded by life in its most vibrant form. The rains there were a balm, coaxing the earth into a luminous green after a long, harrowing drought. It was a stark contrast to the weather in California, where the air carried news of destruction. Even across oceans, the strange reality of our interconnectedness was undeniable.
Returning home, I found my space untouched, my indoor jungle thriving, and my cats well cared for. The skies here are blue, and the stillness is eerie. In this moment of reprieve, I sit with my jetlagged thoughts, a cup of cacao in hand, and a drum by my side. These are my teachers—tools to guide me inward as I ask: What is my role in this moment? What is required of me now?
Home has become more than a physical place. It is a state of being, a sense of belonging I carry within me. South Africa welcomes me as one of its own, just as this land on the other side of the world does. Messages pour in: "Welcome home." And I nod, knowing that home was never a place I left behind. It is here, in my body, in this breath.
I hope we can all find this kind of home that does not rely solely on buildings or possessions but on the groundedness of being fully present in ourselves. Perhaps loving detachment is the key to our salvation. It might allow us to reengage with life's elements—land, water, wind, and fire—with more gratitude and less demand.
As I sit, reflecting on the flames that swept through fragile, water-starved land, I wonder what seeds of belonging might still lie dormant beneath the ash. What wisdom does the earth hold for us as we rebuild, not just homes but the stories and connections that root us? There is an opening in these moments of destruction and devastation—an invitation to begin again.
Let us lean into this opportunity with hope and kindness. May we hold one another gently, remembering that we are not separate from the world around us. The elements we witness in nature are the same forces that move within us. How we engage with them matters.
This is a time to listen deeply—to ourselves, to each other, to the land—and to honor the constant interplay of destruction and creation. In that interplay lies the potential for transformation, a reminder that life's design is intricate and often incomprehensible but always imbued with possibility.
And so, as we face the scorched landscapes of our lives, let us consider what we will choose to create from the ashes. Let us be open to the improbable and the possible. Let us remember that in our forgiveness, in our re-membering, we find strength.

Fire ignited, burn delighted,
Turn this land anew, in this moment askew.
A fresh start rolls in on an old cart—
What will we choose?
How will we peruse
The possible and improbable, too?
Hearts lit begin to tire,
Blame feels futile and dire.
Inconsiderate embers destroying members—
Property, material, our dearest familial.
Forgiveness, a practice.
A momentous service,
Giving and receiving,
Required for re-membering.
Remembering, heavy as stone,
Reminds us: we do not stand alone.
Always in love,
Quinne





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