My month of July has swiveled dizzyingly, like the very windiest hairpin turns on Highway 1 in Big Sur, between nature and nurture. I’m not talking about the old argument that gets bantered around during studies on twins separated at birth. I’m talking about the real-life Mother Nature and honest-to-God put-it-all-out-there nurture. It all began as a new day dawned with unnaturally hot weather for Northern California. By 9am, it was 90-something degrees, warm enough that Siena and I decided to brave the icy neighborhood pool. By 11am, it topped 100° and billowy cumulonimbus clouds gathered, reminding me of Florida summery skies, just before the thunderclouds let loose. Matt said, “It looks like rain,” and we laughed at the thought, since it NEVER rains on California summer days.

But an hour later, lightning sparked the sky like the prelude to the upcoming Fourth of July extravaganza. Flashes of light and jagged Z’s of fire danced between clouds, delighting those of us who watched, Californians who rarely enjoy the pleasure of a summer storm. Thunder rolled through the valley, shaking the earth with its grandiose voice, while ominous clouds swirled into ever-darker clusters. Light rain fell, but the glorious monsoon we awaited eagerly, with hopes it would cool the air, never came. As quickly as it arrived, it passed, and we went about our merry business.

Not until hours later did I read the news that the breathtaking display of lightning had sparked more than a thousand wildfires in Northern California, including two big ones in my precious Big Sur. Within days, the two fires merged to create the largest threat to the idyllic resort town in decades. I slept restlessly, dreaming of firestorms and bolts of lightning, scary, apocalyptic images that haunted me long after I awoke. Those of you who know me understand how sacred Big Sur is for me. It is my soul’s home, my spiritual center, the place where I married Matt, the destination I seek when I need to feel grounded, to find peace. To think of it in flames, with redwoods toppling into embers and historic structures threatened, devastated me. Big Sur’s landscape, dotted with elements of nature- earth, sea, mountains, redwoods- symbolizes so much for me. The rugged cliffs are life’s hurdles. The space between mountain and ocean, where I sit to ponder life, represents letting go of the handle, trusting fate and what lies ahead. The redwoods are my sanctuary, the place where I most clearly see God. If it burned to the ground, what would that say for my soul, my marriage, my future? I left my whole life in San Diego to be closer to Big Sur, which drew me like a siren song. Being close to it made me feel whole. So what does it mean that it is being ripped apart, cleaved and broken into shattered fragments of char? How will Big Sur- and with it, me- survive?

Shortly after the fire began to burn, a friend who I met at Esalen- let’s call her Hope, just to give her a little anonymity, came to stay with me for a while. Hope lived in Big Sur for over a year, and now that she had left Esalen, she decided to undergo carpal tunnel surgery to prepare her for maybe working again in her trained field as a massage therapist/bodyworker. When she emailed me to ask if I might help her through this experience, she wrote the most humble, apologetic, supplicating letter, making her request. Twenty-some sentences of vulnerability and appreciation and apology, followed by the most meager question- would I mind taking her to her surgery and driving her back to my place for a little while so she could recover? I replied with something to the effect of “You could have just called with a ‘Hey, sista.’ Can I crash with you while I get surgery?’” What are friends for? But that’s not Hope’s way. Always attentive and cautious and careful of the needs of others, she bowed in thanks when I said yes.

This all happened long before Mother Nature sparked the Big Sur fires, so by the time she arrived, her soul was already a bit wounded by the smoke and ash that rained down from the place she called home all year. All of her friends were evacuated, Highway 1 was closed, the wildlife from the Ventana Wilderness were running for their lives into town, and the whole community was at risk of losing everything. Mixed in with that mournful loss was the realization that she would need help with everything. I would have to cut her salad, tie her shoes, chop her vitamins in half, and shower with her in order to wash her glorious mane of hair. Hope is not the type who likes to be waited on hand and foot. Me, I have no problem with that. If you offer to take care of me, I’ll pretty much lie back with my feet up and drink my herbal tea. You might even have to kick me out when you’re tired of me, because I might not notice I’ve overstayed my welcome. But Hope is more like Matt that way, fiercely independent, intensely private, and very proud (in a good way).

So here we were, on the day of Hope’s surgery, fire and ice and air, all mixed into an vanilla/chocolate swirl of nature and nurture. With every ounce of what I wished I could do for Big Sur, I focused on taking care of Hope. I might be helpless to fight a wildfire, but I could tend this one little flame, in my own home, to make sure it burned bright during a dark time. My physician training kicked in, and it turned out that I had the privilege of helping her make some healthy medical decisions that served her well and made me grateful that I know the lingo and can throw around the doctor card when I need to. It perked me up a little, to feel useful, to feel like I might have alleviated Hope’s suffering, in some small way, even though I was helpless in the face of Mother Nature and the fire that raged on.

A week later, my daughter busted her lip open and ended up in the operating room (see the posting Blind Faith) and now, exactly a week after that, Matt is in the operating room for the third time in two years, after cutting two fingers off his left hand with a table saw while building the panels on which I paint. Hope’s hand is healing beautifully, and you can barely see Siena’s “ouchie,” but yesterday, on our drive down to San Diego, where Matt is going under the knife, we drove under the plume of smoke that still rages on the east side of the Big Sur fire. For miles, the air felt like a scene out of Revelations, fire and brimstone and dark angels, an orangey-crimson glow of ash and smoke. It made me realize just how little I can control, no matter how much I try. We all know it deep down, how fragile life is, how insignificant our every action may be, but I imagine that you, like me, cling to those little things we can do to feel like we matter. For me, in the month of July, it was nurturing in little ways, like squeezing Hope’s lemon water with Agave nectar or kissing Siena’s boo-boo over and over. But the fire reminds me how helpless I really am.

This morning, we thought we had all our ducks in a row. Siena had a follow-up visit with the pediatrician to check on her lip at 10:10am. Matt needed to be at the hospital at 12:30pm. His operation would begin at 2:00pm. But at 8:00am, the phone rang. Matt’s doctor had been up all night, puking his guts out (or something like that). He had cancelled all his morning surgeries, but he was going to spend the morning sleeping, hoping he would be up to operating by the time two o’clock rolled around. We wouldn’t know until noon. We would just have to wait.

Now, we drove seven hours in a car with a two year old, just to be here for this surgeon, the same amazing microsurgeon who replanted his Matt’s two dismembered fingers back in September, 2006. It’s not like we could just reschedule for next week. This is one busy surgeon. It had taken us two months to arrange a surgery date. Plus, Matt spent the past week reliving the original trauma of that day when he came barreling down the hillside of our isolated vacation retreat in the tiny town of Julian, California, holding his bloody, detached fingers in his gloved hand while yelling, “I’m so fucked! I’m so fucked!” Each time he awaits yet another surgery (this was supposed to be his last), he curls up inside himself for about a week and nurses his old wounds, the post-traumatic anxiety and painful vulnerability rearing their heads again. He doesn’t sleep well, gets a bit cranky, and shuts off a bit from the outside world. It’s no small thing- this quest to be whole after being crushingly broken.

So we waited. As I did with the Big Sur fires, I felt so helpless. Of course, I totally relate to what the doctor is going through. I have performed many surgeries after filling up with a liter of IV fluids, while suffering some viral gastroenteritis or other. I’ve never canceled a surgery in my life (this is not something I should be proud of, but sadly, I am, just a little bit). And of course, I don’t want Matt’s doctor to pass out in the middle of surgery. He needs to nurture himself, right? But if it gets canceled, it means another seven hours back to Monterey in the car with a toddler and a cranky husband, all for what? So we can drive under the fire cloud from hell as we pass Big Sur?

Siena got her Hepatitis A shot, we killed time passing out kisses at the OB/GYN office where I used to work, and just after noon, the phone rang. Dr. Jones had rallied, and the surgery was on. Amid mixed feelings of relief (Yeah! The surgery is on!) and panic (Oh my God- do we really want this guy operating?), we raced to the hospital. And Matt is now sleeping, with the help of Propofol and a little Versed, while Siena is sleeping, because it is nap time. And me, I’m just sitting here with my computer, helpless once again, but knowing that I will be able to kiss Matt’s boo-boo, right after I kiss the spot where Siena got her shot, and I will make it all just a tiny bit more okay for having been here for them.

Tomorrow, we will lumber back up the coast, under that scary, nightmare of a cloud, which jeopardizes Big Sur even still, like a jaguar poised to pounce on its prey if it feels like it. I have heard rumors of what Big Sur looks like from Highway 1, which just reopened. Smoldering embers mix with charred redwoods and decimated houses. Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, where my favorite rock lived- the one I always sit on when gazing at the ocean and making wisdom from Big Sur’s all-knowing core, is apparently destroyed. What will happen to this small, artistic community? Will it ever be the same in my lifetime? How will I cope with seeing it again, for the first time? I don’t know.

But for now, I’m going to sneak into the post-op holding area and nurture my wounded husband, since it’s one thing I can do to make the world a better place. Then, when Hope and Siena and Matt recover, I’ll muster up some courage and venture down to Big Sur to check out what Mother Nature has left for me. At least, I know the ocean will never burn, and even if the redwoods are gone, my rock on the cliff overlooking the Pacific will still be there. Really, that’s all I need- just one rock to keep me grounded, one rock to give me hope. In the meantime, I’ll try to be a rock for those I love, that point of grounding that reminds them that, between nature and nurture, nature may win out in the long run, but nurture is definitely nothing to scoff at.