Issue #10 Seeds for the Future

Fragile, yet fragrant attempts at hope in a world gone mad

In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Narcissus falls in love with his own reflection and wastes away by the river’s edge, turning into a yellow-centered white flower we now know as the Narcissus flower or daffodil. The metamorphosis – or change – a form of poetic justice.

At present, the rot of narcissism permeates our country with its foul odor as those in power worship themselves and serve their own interests. But I wonder, might the god of change be fertilizing the soil to replace them with something beautiful and fragrant?

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My neighbor and I have recently gotten into the habit of exchanging gifts. Simple, small things: a valentine's day card, citrus from our fruit trees, flowers from the garden. While returning a vase I had lent her from a recent offering, she presented the first batch of Narcissus that had sprung up in the garden bed between our houses. Placing the arrangement on my desk, I breathed in deeply savoring their smell. Just four flower blossoms filled the entire room with sweet perfume and the promise of Spring – a welcomed sign of hope.

Much has transpired since I last published. I got married, released my sophomore EP American Game, lived through one of the worst wildfires in California history, and somehow, Trump became President … again.

Returning home from our wedding in Tuscany and our honeymoon in Sicily and Paris in October, I felt weightless for a brief interlude. In a jetlagged haze, I walked our sunny Pasadena neighborhood sidewalk feeling as though time stretched on.

While on my usual route, I passed a baby olive tree. I had never noticed it before. I teared up as I texted Matt a picture typing, “It must be good luck.” (Friends and family threw olive leaves in the air as we left the wedding ceremony).

A day later, I met up with a friend to walk the Silverlake Reservoir with Binny. She pointed out that I didn't seem to have the post-wedding blues. I agreed; I didn't. I suspected this because Matt and I were relieved to have wedding planning behind us and because it had been better than we had dreamed.

But for other reasons, I sensed gloom encroaching. One of a more existential nature.

Western North Carolina – a place I spent half every summer as a kid and still visit annually – was reeling from Hurricane Helene. Hurricane Milton followed suit as I watched anxiously from 3,000 miles away as it headed towards my in-laws' doorstep in Sarasota, Florida. Matt was away on business, and suddenly the world that had so recently felt full of future felt so incredibly fragile and fraught with fear.

Our family and those we knew in the affected communities made it through. But I could feel in my bones another storm was brewing.

Having felt optimistic, excited even just two days before, I woke up on the morning of November 6, 2024 in a cold sweat. Trump had been named the winner of the 2024 Presidential election.

I let the shock settle and forgave myself for allowing the feeling of hope to supersede my usual catastrophic thinking and hypervigilant readiness. Struggling to process the news, I went for a long walk and texted the folks who I knew would need comfort, be able to offer it, or both.

I held all those who feared for their lives and livelihoods in my heart, and I let myself feel the visceral stab of watching others, including loved ones, celebrate the win of a rapist and his puppeteers of supervillains. I sought community with other survivors and leaned on Matt, who held me and held our helm steady.

Acceptance and a healthy sense of detachment came easier this time. At first, this alarmed me. Later, I decided it was a sign of resilience — a skill I have spent many laboured hours learning.

Like a lobster shedding an old shell in order to grow a new, stronger one – this process is key to survival. It requires one to stay alert, aware of any predators who may take advantage during this vulnerable state as well as extra attention and resources for the nourishment required for a new shell to harden.

I resolved to take good care and to keep moving forward.

Over Christmas, we spent time in Athens, Georgia, with Matt’s family and then in Franklin, Tennessee, with mine. The childlike wonder of my nieces, nephews, and cousins and the growth of family on both sides eased past tensions.

The interpersonal shift in the family dynamic made me feel less tired and even a little energized. I returned home to Pasadena with an optimistic pep in my step.

We had dinner with friends on New Year’s Eve and started the year with a morning walk down the street to the Rose Parade. I savored the sweetness of my friend’s little ones’ excitement, my homebrewed to-go-coffee, the Wicked float, and the fulfilment of a childhood dream come true. I had always wanted to watch the Parade of Roses in faraway, sunny California. Now, it was in my backyard.

Later, Matt and I hosted friends and neighbors for brunch on the porch. The birds sang, the dogs played. My neighbor left a note, “What a perfect way to start the new year!”

I agreed.

But a week later, another storm came. And this time, it was made of wind and fire.

On Tuesday evening January 7, 2025, the power went out around 7pm. Matt and I were out to dinner with friends in Highland Park. Matt had hesitated to go in the first place, he sensed danger. While waiting for appetizers, the restaurant's power went out, and the generator kicked on in a dramatic fashion reminiscent of a Hollywood portrayal of a blackout. Despite the restaurant's insistence that they would still be serving us dinner, the fire alarm went off due to the lack of ventilation in the kitchen. Meanwhile, we received phone alerts that a fire had broken out in Eaton Canyon ten miles away. It became abundantly clear that we were, in fact, in danger. We drove home to Pasadena in a panic, and as we crossed the 110 overpass, we saw the Eaton Canyon hills in flames. I only saw the fire for a split second, but the image will forever be seared in my brain. A hurricane of fire racing down the hillside engulfed in flames like the image of hell painted from a southern Baptist pulpit or a scene from J. R. R. Tolkien's Mordor.

As soon as we got to the house, we conferenced with our neighbor and all decided to evacuate as fast as possible. In the dark, we frantically secured the cats (one in a carrier, the other in a duffle bag), packed Binny’s crate, and grabbed our marriage certificate, wedding portrait, and passports. Throwing what else we could in the truck after managing to get all three, very scared animals somewhat settled, we drove South as the Santa Ana winds raged. Seeking refuge in Redondo Beach at Monica and Jake’s home, with whom we had been at dinner with just a couple hours prior, we got settled in the guest room and attempted to catch our breath. Amid the chaos of it all, I had managed to sit on an open packet of Churu, tuna paste cat treats, that was now smeared on the back pocket of the slacks I had worn out to dinner. I washed the pants in the sink and opened my suitcase to assess what I had managed to grab. Remembering my laundry was wet in the washing machine at home in Pasadena, I discovered I hadn’t even packed a pair of sweatpants. I did, however, bring my one nice pair of silk pajamas which now more than ever felt like divine luxury.

For the next 48 hours, we watched the news and the Watch Duty App anxiously as more fires ignited while the Palisades and Eaton fires spread viciously turning most of the Pacific Palisades and Altadena to ash. Monica and Jake made Armenian soup and Binny and their dog, Glide, played outside while the cats hid under the bed covers. By Thursday, the air was thick even in Redondo. Friends from the Bay called, offering their home for the week while they were on vacation. Assessing the uncertainty of the ongoing fire threats in SoCal and the worsening air quality, we decided to take them up on it.

On the way, we returned briefly to our house to retrieve more belongings. When we arrived, we found the house untouched. A likely outcome considering the fire never managed to jump the 210, but a surreal feeling nonetheless. The yard was full of tree branches, the sky was pink with fire smog while the sun looked inflamed by a hot pink and orange film. Inside, our usual safe haven was uninhabitable. It smelled like a bonfire had been lit in the middle of the living room and left to hotbox for a few days. We packed the truck wearing COVID masks, moving as quickly as possible to avoid the toxic ash that fell from the sky like snow.

At this point, the fire was still 0% contained and most of our neighbors were nowhere to be seen. We stopped at the local Petco to get a second cat carrier for the long drive. The scene felt nothing short of apocalyptic. All the animal carriers had been brought to the front of the store. What once was likely organized was now visibly picked over and disheveled. There were only two cat carriers left.

On the way out of town we could see the smoke clouds to the west and east. And having newly leased a Rivian, it was our first road trip in an all electric vehicle requiring us to find charging stations along the way in lieu of gas. Inevitably, one was a Tesla station. While we waited for the truck to charge, we cursed Elon and found comic relief in reliving the heated argument Matt found himself in during a party a couple years ago. A friend of a friend launched into a patronizing tirade about how Elon was some kind of god. Matt’s passionate Italian blood and Scorpio sun could hardly take it, forcing him to leave the room abruptly in order to avoid further escalation. Matt’s intuition about these sorts of things is rarely wrong.

We arrived safely in Larkspur, California just north of San Francisco late on Thursday night. Once we got settled – thanks to the generosity of friends who welcomed us with open arms, home cooked meals, and baby cuddles – we were finally able to take a big, deep breath. Clean air has never felt so good. Nestled in the Redwoods, the trees felt like guardian angels. It is not the first time they have offered reprieve when we needed it most.

A week later, we drove home. I held Matt’s hand with an even deeper trust and appreciation for him and our little family, if such a thing was possible. I had my loves: Matt, Binny, Phoebe, and Flea all right next to me – as well as my “pinky-pillow” I’ve used since infancy to self-soothe. In a crisis, we had everything we needed. We had a car, financial resources, a safe place to go, food and water, our health, and a vast community of loved ones checking in and offering refuge. And we had each other. I have never felt so lucky and as privileged as I did then — or when we walked through our front door to find the smoke lifted and our amaryllis bulb in full bloom.

Work kept me busy, a healthy distraction as my nervous system recalibrated. Taking on contract work in production, my first freelance project of the new year was working on a movie screening in a haunted house for Stephen Soderbergh’s latest film, Presence. After that, we produced two fake funerals for special screenings, first at the Hollywood Forever mausoleum for a screening of Ozgood Perkin’s movie The Monkey, followed by the world premiere of the same film at the Immanuel Presbyterian Church. I played the role of co-producer, stage manager, and hearse chauffeur. God only knows why I signed up for that. It’s a blessing and a curse being a do-it-yourself person. Driving a 2001 Lincoln hearse down the 110 in the pouring rain was not on my 2025 bingo card, but somehow the experience only made me love LA’s wild imagination that much more. It dawned on me that the creative process of recreating haunting films and maybe, especially outrageous and comical horror ones served as a welcomed escape from the real world’s state of unfolding mayhem.

To further cope, I compiled and shared resources, volunteered time, money, and supplies, slowed down to talk to folks at the park and chat with neighbors, and attended a group healing circle in Altadena.

Historically, despair often gets stuck in my body. Sometimes it makes it out onto the page or into a song, but this time my instincts led to action.

And I wasn’t alone. The outpouring of community care, mutual aid, and neighborly love I witnessed all across LA from near and far offered a much needed renewal of faith in humanity.

The weeks felt like months. And somehow, it was still January, and now time to face inauguration day. I resolved to trade doom scrolling for soup making – a small attempt to focus my attention on something more productive, however mundane.

Amanda Doyle made a keen point on an episode of “We Can Do Hard Things” following the election, highlighting the fact that so many of us responded to the chaos of Trump’s first presidency with equal and opposite reaction. Understandably so, of course. And for some, like myself, the alarm bells were absolutely needed to wake me the hell up.

This go-around, however, we should know what we’re dealing with and should know better than to buy a ticket to the circus.

Instead, best to focus our energy on unifying for collective well-being and organized resistance.

The authoritarian playbook aims to suppress the power of the people. Because the people have power. It’s time we wield it.

During a recent interview hosted by Showing Up for Racial Justice’s Appalachian chapter, Dr. Angela Davis reminds us that coalition building and collective action is our greatest hope. With so many different populations under attack, intersectional solidarity is essential.

“All that you touch you change.” – Octavia E. Butler

I’ve been reading Octavia Butler’s novel "Parable of the Sower” with my bookclub. Published in 1993, a year after I was born, it is a timely and rather haunting work to read at present. “Parable of the Sower” is set in California from 2024-2027 depicting a world where climate disaster, arson, extreme social inequity, and modern-day slavery underscore an apocalyptic collapse in America. The dystopian prophecy is written from the perspective of a 17-year-old named Lauren Olamina who has hyper-empathy-syndrome (meaning she feels the physical pain of others) who is fighting to survive in the midst of chaos.

Seeking truth in the crumbling world around her, Olamina resolves that “God is change.” She writes in her journal verses for which she calls “Earthseed: The Books of the Living.” “All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you. The only lasting truth is change. God is change,” she writes.

I wrote about Project 2025 in my last essay of 2024 a few weeks before the election. I second-guessed whether or not it would come off as hyperbolic. Especially, as I hoped, after Kamala Harris had won.

But now here we are. It is not the change I had hoped for but rather the change I feared. Federal agencies gutted. ICE raids and privatized detention centers. Trans friends unable to renew passports, same-sex marriage under attack, federal funding for higher education and researched slashed or all together paused. Christian nationalists, fascist billionaires, corporate sell outs, foreign powers, greed, incompetence, and narcissism pulling the strings.

But we must continue to plant the seeds of the change we want.

February brought rain, and with it the signs of spring and an abundant winter harvest: Tangerines, lemons, limes, oranges of plenty, and the sweet scent of the Narcissus in bloom.

As the bad news abounds, there are whispers of goodness everywhere – too.

Monica and Jake welcomed their first baby into the world. My sister is pregnant. My niece turned six. Friends are fostering puppies, planning weddings, and premiering short films. My mom and I have been connecting over our work as writers, our love for dogs, and our appreciation of paying attention to what she calls “God art.” Matt bought his first bonsai tree at the Alhambra Farmers Market.

In the zeitgeist, Kendrick Lamar stunned with his historic Superbowl performance, the Grammy Awards were the best they’ve been in years, and powerful films like Sing Sing, The Brutalist, No Other Land, Anora, and Conclave have made it into Hollywood’s spotlight.

Neighbors of all backgrounds, socio-economic status, religious and political beliefs, race, sexuality, and gender identity, have been sharing resources and a helping hand. Donation centers have been overflowing.

Inspired by the Episcopal bishop Mariann Budde’s moxie during her inauguration sermon, I even found myself back at church. This time I came simply as a visitor — a humble observer and grateful witness to a church community that celebrates radical inclusion, strives to protect Trans kids, and celebrates BIPOC, LGBTQ folks, and women in leadership.

And though the dread still hangs in the balance of the unknown and the daily drip of disturbing developments, I find myself grounded and able to carve out pockets of peace — even moments of optimism. I suppose this is my current form of rebellion: resisting despair. It’s my imperfect way of seeking solace — controlling what I can, accepting what I cannot, and planting the seeds of the future I long for.

As I lay in Savasana during a recent yoga class, a profound sense of simplicity washed over me, carried by a stream of childhood memories. I saw spring in Tennessee, where daffodils painted the hillsides and fresh-cut grass cradled me as I watched puffy clouds drift by. I pictured my four-year-old self, lining up stuffed animals on my tiny yellow sofa to read them a book. I caught a glimpse of painting a papier-mâché rooster in the red art barn. I felt the weight of our golden retriever’s head on my lap as I sat cross-legged in the backyard, picking clovers—thinking, dreaming, simply existing.

Reflections from the past guiding me, perhaps, to plant such seeds for the future.

“A sower went out to sow his seed: and as he sowed, some fell by the way side; and it was trodden down, and the fowls of the air devoured it. And some fell upon a rock; and as soon as it was sprung up, it withered away because it lacked moisture. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprang up with it, and choked it. And others fell on good ground, and sprang up, and bore fruit an hundredfold.”

— The Bible, Authorized King James Version, St. Luke 8:5-8. (Parable of the Sower. Octavia E Butler. 1993).