When there’s smoke

I’m learning to use my fear as fuel.

Two weeks ago, on a warm spring morning, the air smelled like smoke.

More accurately, it smelled like a bonfire made from more than just wood. There was a whiff of burning plastic. Of toxic chemicals. Of smoldering rubber.

I noticed it on the walk home after dropping off my child at her outdoor preschool. By the time I got back, I had a pounding headache. I checked the local news for answers. Billy checked social media. Within seconds, we had the same explanation: wildfires. Tens of thousands of acres were burning in South Georgia, more than 250 miles away.

Not long after that, the preschool messaged to say the children were moving indoors.

Georgia — like much of the Southeast — is experiencing a drought. According to the U.S. Drought Monitor, nearly 50% of the state, including Atlanta, where I live, is under “extreme” drought. The southern portion of Georgia — about a third of the state, where the wildfires are burning — is under “exceptional” drought. That’s as bad as it gets.

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, you know I struggle with eco-anxiety. Heat waves send me into a tailspin. Hurricane season leaves me breathless. Drought makes me panic. I worry about how bad things will get, and what my daughter’s future will look like. If I’m not careful, I can lose hours — sometimes an entire day — to the spiral.

Wildfires are a relatively new fear for me. I’ve watched with horror from afar as places like California, Canada, and Australia have gone up in flames. But I don’t have firsthand experience living alongside them. I didn’t know you could smell a wildfire hundreds of miles away, or how terrible the odor can be.

She was so little. I was so anxious.

I learned these things during a trip to visit family in Pittsburgh. It was the summer of 2023. Record-setting wildfires were raging in Canada — one country border and some 300 miles away. For a day or two, every time we stepped outside, we were met with smoke. Billy and I worried about our daughter’s tiny lungs. We wore the masks we had packed for Covid to instead shield us from the smog.

It was bleak. And while there were plenty of awe-inducing moments on that trip, what I remember most clearly is the fear — how quickly it took over. The smoke was like a dark cloud, blocking all the bright spots. Looking back, I can see how much that fear stole from me, how much it kept me from being present.

I thought about that trip as I walked home the other day, the air thick with that same mix of plastic and rubber and lord knows what else. But this time, I didn’t let dread sideline me. I had blocked off several hours to work on my novel — a book in which the characters grapple with their own complicated feelings about climate disasters.

I decided to use my fear as fuel instead.

We already own air purifiers. (Thanks, eco-anxiety!) I turned them on, said a quick prayer, and got to work.

Two days later, I went to a CreativeMornings talk — my first since returning to Atlanta five years ago. The smoke had cleared, but the wildfires were still burning. The theme for the talk was, fittingly, Ember.

Atlanta knows fire. During the Civil War, much of the city was burned to the ground. Today, the city’s seal features a phoenix, the mythical bird known for rising from the ashes.

Fire destroys. But it also creates room for something new.

Thank heavens for resourceful friends.

I learned this in the woods of North Carolina, on a hike with friends along the Appalachian Trail. It was the summer of 2018 — just a year after losing my husband and months after quitting my job. Our trek took us through a section of trail that had burned a few years prior. The landscape was gray; the altitude, punishing. The remaining skeleton-like trees did little to provide shade.

But the charred environment offered hope. At least that’s what Sarah, our trail leader and an ecologist, reminded us. She explained that longleaf pine forests, like the one we were walking through, benefit from controlled brush fires. Every so often, she would crouch down and point out tiny wildflowers pushing up through the soil, marveling at how nature finds a way to return.

Almost everything about that hike was hard. My grief was fresh. My future felt uncertain. I was tasked with carrying one of two tents — and I somehow managed to forget the poles. Thanks to my resourceful friends, we rigged a solution together using string and canvas.

The hike was hard, and it was wonderful. Our makeshift structure proved sturdy enough to hold through a storm that night. The sense of accomplishment was intoxicating. We laughed so much.

We gave each other trail names: Sunshine, Lightning, Machete. They called me Phoenix.

Can you believe this setup?

Over the past few years, my creativity has transformed in fits and starts — from spark to flame and back again. Lately, it’s felt closer to an inferno.

The CreativeMornings talk I attended — given by Daren Wang, author and founder of the Decatur Book Festival — was about keeping a creative dream alive. A week later, I saw Jami Attenberg in conversation with Matthew Shaer, a live podcast recording focused on building a writing routine. My friend Becca came with me, and by the end of the evening, we were both ablaze with possibility. This past Saturday, I attended a Zoom class on plot with Courtney Maum. I workshopped my novel-in-progress and walked away feeling more confident in my words.

On paper, these are relatively small things. The kinds of events anyone with an interest in writing might attend.

But they feel significant to me, because I so often talk myself out of them. I tell myself it’s too expensive, or that I’m too busy, or that I should be able to figure things out on my own. Each choice comes with its own cost. Every time I listen to those voices, the fire in my belly gets a little smaller.

I made different choices this time. I tended to the flames.

I’m feeling a lot like that reborn phoenix these days. Like I’ve earned my trail name. When it comes to my writing, I feel clear-headed. Confident. Excited for what’s to come. This feeling might come naturally to you. For me, it’s rare. Exceptional. As good as it gets.

I also know it won’t last forever. There will be times when real-life worries grow too big or real to ignore. When I’ll have to set aside creative projects for more practical, pressing responsibilities. There will be a day — hopefully far off, but maybe not — when my well of inspiration feels as dry as the soil in my backyard.

There will be hard days. There always are.

But for now, I’m here. The fire is burning. And I am grateful.

xoxo
KHG

P.S. The wildfires in South Georgia are improving, but still devastating. I just made a donation to the Red Cross Georgia chapter. If you’re able, I hope you’ll consider joining me.

P.P.S. If you like this theme, you might enjoy Kelton Wright’s latest missive. I wrote this essay just an hour or so before hers arrived in my inbox. I love when I’m on the same wavelength with someone I admire!