The decommissioned firehouse at the end of Joseph Court is marked by an atmosphere of modest California charm and the slow simmer of creeping insanity. The firehouse itself blends unremarkably into the culdesac’s collection of low lying stucco motels and nondescript businesses. Cream colored whites and dreamsicle oranges evoke the arid serenity of the desert and the quintessential architectural stylings of the 1960s. In San Rafael, and throughout the Bay Area, one can intuit how property values rise in conjunction with the rugged hillsides. Rugged hillsides sewn into ridges, abruptly jutting from the pale earth, and concealing a conglomerate of waterways and bays.
The firehouse is built to hold a dozen or so people at any given time. Built for continuous habitation without requiring anybody to actually live there full time. You can detect this in the peculiar additions made to the space—the four buttery brown lazyboys in the living area, the poster of the Virgen de Guadalupe tacked above one of the Spartan mattresses, and the mismatched coffee mugs in the otherwise empty cabinets. Thoughtful touches that reveal someone spent enough time in the building to alter the space but not enough time to feel completely at home. I have often thought that it is a setting which seems primed for surviving an apocalypse or is perhaps in and of itself apocalyptic. It is a place that sits at the edge of the world—at the edge of lucid existence.
It’s not so much the building itself that induces delirium but the strangely insulated little crew which inhabits it. The day I moved in I found a drawing of a unicorn on my bunk and I was an individual with my own differentiated thoughts. I could sense the lingering madness of those that had come before me but in the remote way one senses old age; as an inevitability still too far off to be recognized as inevitable. But just one week into the deployment I had a hard time recalling any life I previously experienced and I impulsively shaved half my head.
I don’t mean to imply that I’m not enjoying myself immensely—I am. I am endeared to the blood blisters forming on my palms and the smattering of bruises appearing on my upper thighs, my calves, and forearms. To the way that the days effortlessly clump together and obscure my metrics of measuring time. I have dissolved into the daily choir of running chainsaws and the clamor of eight individuals playing out their assigned social roles within the Emergency Response Team (ERT).
When I started serving with AmeriCorps St. Louis on the Emergency Response Team, I had hoped for an assignment precisely like this one. Upon relocating to St. Louis and completing my training in September, I was promptly deployed to perform fuels mitigation here in San Rafael, California. I am learning the mechanics of wildland firefighting and the inestimable importance of disaster preparedness. The National Institute of Building Sciences maintains that for every $1 the federal government spends on disaster mitigation another $6 is saved on disaster response. It feels gratifying to be involved in these efforts, especially when I am working directly with home owners establishing defensible spaces around their homes and reducing the fuels on their properties. Or building fuel breaks along ridgelines in the early morning hours, watching the sun burn away the marine layer to reveal the San Pablo Bay and the creased contours of Mount Tamalpais.
In many ways my ERT experience has been surreal. It has been the self-contained universe at Joseph Court but it has also entailed basking in the blood orange glow of the Golden Gate Bridge after dark. The chill of Pacific winds weaving inland as an icy blue star explodes on the horizon over the sea. Staring into the milky surf of whitecaps exploding over boulders and unseen obstacles at Black Sands Beach. Noticing how the abyssal ocean resembles smoke or marble with its uninterrupted motion. Wandering wordlessly among giant redwoods and silently imploring them to share their wisdom. Resting on my back atop a ridge line as a rare California rain shifts from a gentle mist to a roaring hail. It has been full of wonder, community, and deepening connection with the earth.
Although serving during the height of COVID, particularly during the onset of winter and the subsequent surge of cases, presents a novel set of challenges for everyone involved. Regular testing, strict policies restricting individual movements, and limited interaction outside our snug set. Thus, at times, the insanity at Joseph Court half felt all encompassing. Unending. Infinite.
Yet here I am in my final weeks of the deployment and I want to reflect upon how nourishing this time has been for my body, my brain, and my spirit. Swept up in the tide of a routine I am resigned to, it has been essential for me to establish private little ceremonies which personalize that routine and infuse my days with equanimity and with moments of stillness. I think of stretching out on my yoga mat each morning with a cup of coffee before the sun appears and the kitchen erupts in the chaos of eight people jockeying for counter space. With so little personal space, privacy, or freedom I have taken to measuring the quality of my days in the most basic terms: sleeping soundly, staying hydrated, aspiring to consume as large a variety of fruits and vegetables as I can manage. Attending to the small matters of keeping myself alive and delighting in that process rather than minimizing it.
And in that absence of personal space, thrust into the immediacy of life within a crew, I am unfailingly grateful for each of my teammates and all they have taught me. For my brilliant friend and favorite conversation partner, Eli, who is taking a year off from his undergrad at Brown to be here with the ERT. For Eaden, who will never pass up an opportunity to throw himself into the Pacific ocean, no matter how windy or frigid or miserable the conditions may be. For Marissa’s affectionate touches and gentle presence when my nerves are worn thin. For Spencer’s assertive personality and competitive energy which inspires me to be just as aggressive in challenging him and myself. For Derek’s extravagant cooking, ceaseless consideration for others, and stubborn work ethic. For Meredith’s humility in her impressive knowledge of chainsaws, truck engines, all things conservation; but particularly her wisdom on leading a team in such a way that empowers every individual member to lead from behind. Katie, who I served with on my last crew in Arizona, has become a permanent fixture and dear friend. Katie, who asks the hard questions and sticks around to find out the answers. Who challenges me to live into my beliefs more boldly and humbles me with her ability to muster compassion in moments when all I can muster is criticism. Katie is my better half.
The closeness forming between my crewmates and I in this season reminds me of those with whom I have shared similarly brief and beautiful seasons of closeness in the past. Reminds me that the people with whom we share our lives are always, in my assessment, the best part.
Much Love,
Isabella
IsabellaZHall 