Water, Fire, Wind, and Quakes

Water

In Southeast Asia, where I primarily work, summers are a season of relentless flooding. The waters sweep away people, livestock, and entire livelihoods. Fields become unrecognizable swamps, and what was once called home transforms into a desolate wasteland. Overflowing waters reveal the other face of what was once a blessing.

Fire

Southern California, my second home, is a land of annual fire seasons. The Santa Ana winds whip through dry terrain, as if fanning the flames with deliberate intent. Wildfires consume mountains, fields, and everything humans have built, leaving nothing but ashes and scars. Fire knows no rest, burning relentlessly until there is nothing left to destroy. It leaves behind barren lands and skies smeared with smoke.

Wind

The Pacific Northwest knows the wrath of winter winds. These fierce gales strip trees of their brittle branches and withered leaves, scattering them across the ground. When the winds grow stronger, even century-old evergreens are uprooted, crashing onto rooftops and splitting homes apart. The howling winds at night are not merely noise; they are a primal warning, a sound that chills the soul with dread.

Earthquakes

In Japan, buildings are engineered to withstand the might of a magnitude 9 earthquake. Los Angeles is no stranger to similar resilience. Here, tremors of magnitude 4 or 5 are so common they’ve become part of life. Sometimes they arrive like an uninvited alarm, shaking you awake in the early hours of the morning.

The most powerful quake I ever experienced was the “Pasadena Big One.” The ground roared and split open; bridges crumbled, and the earth betrayed its solidity. Yet the most haunting part wasn’t the destruction—it was the eerie silence that followed. In that quiet, fear grew louder. Everything had stopped, and what lingered was the unsettling echo of vulnerability.

An Age of Fire and Ash

The wildfires of Los Angeles today seem to herald a new era of disaster, devouring civilization itself. The flames stretch across vast regions, their reach touching places tied to my life, my memories, and my history. Perhaps that is why these fires feel so personal. It’s as though they are consuming pieces of my past along with the land.

I pray for protection—for lives, for homes, for all that is precious to those who live in the fire’s path. May the memories, the histories, and the people endure, even as the world burns around them.

January 13, 2025, at Dawn