Work to do

If it weren't for the newspapers, television and radio, which spur conversation even between strangers, you might not know that, across the state, 26 fires are still raging ... unless you caught a glimpse of the smoke-lined horizon. But on a cloudy day, even that is obscured.

I write this to explain that I am in no immediate danger. I write this to confess that, in many ways, I sit as helplessly as any distant observer. And life roars on.

We have work to do. At our office this means phone calls, emails and event planning. But first we pause and pray for those with much, much harder jobs: treating burn victims, identifying bodies, investigating a devastated town now classified as a crime scene for suspected arson.

Emotions reach new depths, from anger at those who chose to destroy, to compassion for those reaping the destruction. Survivors are offered emergency housing, medical treatment, and free legal advice. Donation stands receive canned food, clothes and toys. From counseling to mobile phones, free goods and services spring from a seemingly bottomless well.

And yet, the ache must be insatiable. For the father who saved his house but lost his family, for those that watched the water tower boil as the bush disappeared, for the parents of the teenage sisters who died trying to save their horses, no gift will suffice.

This is so much worse than Australia's typical bush fires, I've been repeatedly told. A co-worker said we should remember that many countries experience this degree of devastation far more often. But, surely, no one ever gets used to it.

Half-mast

The death toll ticks higher and is expected to surpass 200. Nearly a thousand homes have been consumed. The weather has cooled considerably, but eight fires still rage uncontained.

I know many of you are witnessing footage in your own homes and don't need me to testify to the horror. But, every time I try to send an update to assure you that I am okay, I am overcome by the stories of all those who are not.

At the office, where I work reception, I took a call from a man in Queensland where 60 percent of the state is flooded. He dismissed my concerns about the water, which he said would soon recede. But fire, he said, destroys everything.

He expressed his concern on behalf of those in his state, who have their flags at half-mast, even though the government hadn't asked for it. They are in national mourning, he said. Much like that caller, I feel helpless in the face of what Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has referred to as, "Hell and all its fury."

I continue to be safe but heartbroken. Entire houses disappear in three minutes. Fires jump freeways, scorch paddocks and trap those seeking last-minute escape. Livestock, livelihoods and lifetimes of labor are in ashes. The weight of human loss is immeasurable. The stories of survivors, such as those crouched in a gully and covered by only a wet sheet, are nearly unbelievable.

Fire

Smoke clouds the sky in my neighborhood, again, but we've received no evacuation notice. A frightful combination of gale-force winds and Melbourne's hottest day on record: (46 degrees) has bred blazing bushfires across central Victoria, where I now live.

In the next few hours the encroaching cold front will bring not only a nearly 30-degree drop in temperature, but also a change in wind direction, which only complicates the spreading danger.

The TV remains on for Channel 7 news updates. Weather maps relay dark-blue zones that would usually mean rain. But instead of relief, the radar is detecting patches of thick smoke. My powerless observation reminds me of tracking tornadoes in the central U.S. and typhoons in Japan. This time I'm monitoring the raging fires that leap several kilometers and multiple in neighboring suburbs.

Although my household appears to be in no immediate danger, I've learned a bit about fire-readiness in the last half hour. I'm hopeful I won't actually have to fill the gutters with water, douse the exterior brick walls or get in the bath tub and cover up with a wool blanket. I really doubt it will come to that. I doubt I'll ever get the evacuation invitation: flee now or stay and fight.

In the nearby hills, beyond the fire trucks' reach, homeowners must defend their property alone, or only with the help of neighbors. On fire-ban days, such as today, some stay home, to be ready in case a spark ignites.

These are the sorts of life experiences and lessons I didn't expect: gaining a better grasp of instant loss, of scorching heat, of flames mercilessly consuming hillsides, houses and ranches.

But I realize that we are not alone in these extremes. The crackly weather prompts the never-distant concern of global warming. News of flooding in northern Queensland and crippling winters in the U.K. and U.S. only deepen the thought.

Perhaps you are in a mild climate as you receive this note. I hope so, but I also know that many of you sent me here with questions about climate change. And, because I am living in a virtual petri-dish of land under an ozone hole, I cannot avoid the topic. I've kept waiting to gain answers so I could offer an explanation. I've only ended up with more questions. But I wanted you to know I've not forgotten. With days like these, how could I?