Just a couple of weeks ago, several regions of Southern California were hit hard by raging wildfires that came on very suddenly, as a result of 100 mph Santa Ana winds, and two of them in particular – the Palisades fire and the Eaton fire – wiped out whole towns swiftly and completely. The damage spanned over 50,000 acres, and thousands of homes and memories were lost in an instant – displacing many thousands of people and animals.
Many of my friends and colleagues were among those who lost everything and it’s soul-crushing. It’s hard to imagine the devastation and the impact on those affected, but while it will take time and a lot of support, these people will get on with their lives. We’ve had these types of fires in Northern California over the past several years with similar experiences (and the Lahaina fire in Maui!) so we’ve witnessed this before. Situations like this are where humanity is tested; one thing I know for sure is that we are nothing if not resilient.
On a smaller scale more personally, two of the closest people to me in my inner circle are getting ready to move to other states — and this will be a real test of my own resilience. I know we’ll remain tight, but I won’t be able to see them as often and this will most certainly be a challenge for me.
I also had a scary incident during the Holidays, where a trusted vendor who has been managing my website hosting and back-end maintenance for the past several years suddenly just disappeared without a trace. My site, which is a cornerstone of my business, was down for a week as a result (thank goodness restored by the heroic efforts of my business coach who had the chops) — and it was unnerving not to be able to reach the vendor who vanished. I still have no idea what happened to her, but I’ve since found a terrific resource to replace her, and all is well for the moment. That episode required resilience for me to get through a nail-biting experience.
The only thing we can count on in life is change — and sometimes there are hidden gifts we can’t see until we’re on the other side. In the case of my IT support, my new team is already adding so much more value.
What are some examples in your life where resilience allowed you to prevail in challenging circumstances? I’d love to hear about them.
Be well,
Kelli
Empathy in Action – Supporting Wildfire Victims
In the wake of the recent devastating and catastrophic Palisades and Eaton wildfires in Los Angeles (similar to those we’ve suffered through in Northern California and in Lahaina, Maui), our hearts go out to the many individuals and families who have lost their homes, belongings, their lifestyles and their sense of security. Disasters like these leave a profound impact, not only on the victims but also on the broader community. Here are some ways we can lend a hand. Remember, help is needed long after it’s no longer front page news!
If you’re seeing this on THURS Jan 30th, today is also the day of the FireAid Benefit Concert to support LA fire victims featuring many of the biggest artists in the business — all lending their time and talent to the cause.
Read the Article
The LA Fires
A Note from Rob Tercek
I’ve been in touch with several of my friends and colleagues in LA in the wake of the recent fires. My friend Stewart Copeland (best known perhaps as the drummer of The Police) tells me his family home and studio were spared; the fire was held back to within 700 yards of their property!
And here’s a really meaningful post shared on Facebook by another long-time colleague in media and tech, Rob Tercek (photo on the left), who resides in the hills above Hollywood. Here’s what he had to share:
“Today I dealt with some tasks I’ve been avoiding. Sweeping up the dust that has settled on every surface, and writing a big check for property taxes. Death and taxes. Sweeping the floor after a wildfire offers a silent moment of meditation about impermanence, fragility and human vanity.
There is dust everywhere. The dust comes from ashes that fell like snow from the sky last week But these big fluffy white snowflakes are different from mountain snow, because they instantly turn to black tarry ash when they land on a flat surface. The decks and patios are filthy with grime. My grand piano usually gleams with a deep black sheen. Today it’s coated with a dull grey patina. The couches and floors, too. I am sweeping up the last remains of 10,000 houses that were incinerated a few miles away. The Santa Ana winds ensure that every house still standing in Los Angeles County will get a random distribution of the missing ones.
Two weeks ago, the dust that now covers the floor and bookshelves in my house was somebody’s home and all the stuff in it: family photos and scrapbooks, childhood mementos stuffed in a box in the garage and long forgotten, now lost forever. Someone’s favorite chair, a cherished painting, a family’s beds and sheets and towels and several closets filled with clothing. Their ugly wallpaper, maybe, and their curtains and rugs. Their shoes, piled up by the back door. The contents of their kitchen cabinets, pantries and linen closets.
The couch where the family watched TV. The TV, too. All gone, burned to ash. Some dude’s carefully-restored vintage Porsche that he washed and polished every Sunday. Reduced to a black skeleton and dust. The pool toys, chairs and wooden decks that surrounded a now-empty swimming pool, a black hole in a vacant yard next to a scorched chimney to mark the spot where the living room once stood. Books, paper records, and electronics, all incinerated. Some kid’s game console, Dad’s old desktop computer, all the electronic crap that we fill our houses with. Now it’s reduced to grey goo and ashes. Toxic byproducts of consumer electronics, a reduction of rare earths, copper, some cobalt from the Congo. Now transmuted to aerosol dust, spread evenly across my living room floor. I am sweeping it all up in a dustpan.
It has not escaped me that the floors I am sweeping are destined for the same fate. Someday, hopefully not soon. But eventually. As I sweep, my mind lights on the Buddhist epigram about a porcelain cup: “Imagine the cup is broken because that is its inevitable fate. Then you won’t suffer when it finally happens.” This train of thought makes me feel empty when I put the broom away and sit at the table to write a big check to the County of Los Angeles for my annual property taxes.
Every year, the taxes go up, based on the assessor’s premise that property values always rise. That has been every assessor’s premise since the railroad boom in the 1800s that brought eager migrants here from the East Coast. Each migrant sought a little parcel in paradise, benefitting from the pro-growth policies that saw the population double and double. So many people arrived that tens of thousands of single-family houses spread across the landscape, covering rich farmland in the valleys and stacking up along the hillsides and pushing ever deeper into the canyons.
For 200 years, each year brought more migrants, more houses, more prosperity, and the presumption of ever-rising land value. The California dream was a dream about more and ever more. Is that assumption still valid? What is the value of a house sited on a ridge above a wooded canyon, deep in an area that is subject to high winds and the ever-present threat of fire? Will my taxes go up next year? Sure, but it won’t be an accurate reflection of the true value. Paradoxically, the home insurance premiums rise every year, too. They can’t have it both ways. If a house is more vulnerable then it can’t be more valuable. Pick one. Because this is California where we don’t know how to resolve disputes, the matter will be litigated in a courtroom three years from now.
Last night a neighbor phoned me to tell me that she has decided to pack up and sell her house. Where will you live? I asked. There is no place for 100 miles around that she can afford. She’s moving back to the East Coast where they have normal storms, not the kind that transform entire neighborhoods into charred ruins in an afternoon. Hurricanes? That she can deal with. She loves it here. Of course she does, because this is a lovely neighborhood with a quiet canyon and a big park next door. She has a cozy little house perched on the steep hillside above Beachwood Canyon. It’s cute and comfortable. But she’s done with the strain of anxiety and drain of watchfulness: endless doom-scrolling, the steady ping and gong of notifications and alerts and updates, the random evacuation warnings that keep us on edge day and night. She’s cracking, and she does not like it. I can’t blame her. She’s right. This is exhausting.
Other neighbors have organized a watch group on WhatsApp. Why? Because the official notifications come too late, or not at all, or to the wrong location. You can’t rely on the government (so why do we pay property taxes again?). These folks are taking matters into their own hands. Self-sufficiency, one of the prized virtues of the Old West. We agree to alert each other if we see Griffith Park ablaze.
The illusion of human agency is tempting. It promises an antidote to feelings of dread and helplessness. Everybody wants to believe that they can do something to control their fate. The hard reality, of course, is that it is vanity. The next fire will come licking down a canyon’s walls, maybe this canyon, maybe another one, maybe this year, maybe next. The next fire will light up the forest and scrub growth and dead branches and fallen leaves that lie before it like so much kindling. Then all the apps and notifications in the world won’t do anything to stop it. The only thing that will stop it is rain. Eventually, I hope and believe, rain will come. When that happens, this year’s emergency will come to an end.
But only for a year. The rain will foster more growth. The burned-out hillsides and denuded suburban landscapes will turn green and lush once again, but only until the dry season, when desiccation sets in and those plants turn from green to brown. Then they will turn to fuel and the cycle will begin again.
We tell ourselves that we will be ready. I want to believe that is true. So I will busy myself with precautions, do my hillside clearance and rearrange the deck chairs. But in my heart I know that my house is a porcelain cup.”
Media Recommendations
No Good Deed (series) Netflix
This is a dark comedy mini-series (eight 30-minute episodes in Season 1) starring Ray Romano, Lisa Kudrow, Denis Leary, and Luke Wilson, among others — a strong cast. It pivots around the storyline of three families vying to buy the same house in an upscale LA neighborhood. The series centers on the interactions of the characters, each with challenges going on with their own lives, that they believe the house for sale may help them resolve. But the house holds secrets of its own based on the existing tenants and the back story of their lives. There are a lot of plot twists revealed throughout the series — it’s intriguing and well-acted. I recommend it.
A Man on the Inside (series) Netflix
This is a new comedy series focused on a retired professor and widower who finds his calling as an amateur PI when a detective hires him to go undercover inside a San Francisco-based retirement home to help solve a crime. In the process, he becomes an integral member of the community. Ted Danson stars alongside a seasoned cast of veteran character actors. The plot lines are great — well-acted, funny and heartwarming.
When a Key Vendor Abandons Your Business
For any of you who run your own small business (or even if you are managing a group within a larger organization), what do you do if and when a long-time trusted vendor suddenly goes dark without warning and effectively ‘abandons’ your business? Unfortunately, this happened to me recently; honestly, it was pretty scary and frustrating. Here are some insights and learnings I’d like to share that hopefully will blunt the impact if something similar ever happens to you and your business. Maybe some of this advice is obvious, but as we start a new year it can’t hurt to be mindful.
People Say the Nicest Things…
“Kelli, the power of what you do and how you help those in transition to transform themselves is undeniable, powerful and very much needed. Keep on sharing your gifts with those fortunate to have recognized them.”
Elaine H – Marin, CA
The Lahaina Banyan tree is the largest in the US, and it is the heart and soul of the town. Despite being badly burned, it was spared miraculously in the fires that flattened the town back in August of 2023, and it has been coming back strong since. It’s a sign of hope to all those who are watching its resurgence, and a terrific example of resilience. This is a photo of it from July 2024 (source unknown).