On the Mountain

Greetings, one and all! Well, we’re still here. It’s been a pretty tense week, with high winds pushing uncontained wildfires closer and closer, enveloping us in something of a pincer movement. One of our team members and our grandmother had to evacuate, and we’ve been sitting here, bags packed, staring down the encroaching blaze for most of the week. Plus the atmosphere on the west coast turned into the equivalent of smoking 15 cigarettes a day, and has been compared to favorably Mordor. Needless to say, not a lot got done. The Level 3 evacuation orders just over the hill from us got relaxed slightly Sunday, so we’re breathing a little easier. (Though not literally.) Bags are still packed, though.

This year has been one of increasing pressure. With time running out on numerous things, we make plans to present what we do to various groups, and are ready precisely when the coronavirus lockdowns hit. As those started to ease slightly, we revisited our presentation, to see how it needed to be adapted to a changing world. Then, two days after I talk with someone about arranging the presentation, the fires hit, and the people I would’ve been talking to are overseeing evacuation centers for those displaced by the fires, and we are sitting on our bags, ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice. And, in my case, wonder if I'd wind up watching everything we’d built burn behind us. Thank God, that has not happened, but given the multiple cases of arson, some on our hill Monday and Tuesday morning, tension is still high. There are no guarantees that new fires will not spring up behind the fire lines.

This year has reminded me of Elijah on Mount Carmel, when he orders water to be poured on the sacrifice, so much that it floods the trench around the altar, so that there was no way for it to burn, apart from fire from heaven.

"Contest on Carmel" by Otto Elliger (1633-1679)

Being a filmmaker is already an impossible job, I know this. Almost no-one succeeds, that’s just the way of it. To succeed as an indie is already either an exercise in selling your soul, or an act of God. But this year has been one to blow out all previous definitions of “impossible,” and leave us with the ultimate high bar. This year was water on the altar, wood so wet that you’d have to toss it into the sun to get a spark. People are scared, and local governments are ranging from overbearing to draconian. There’s a virus, massive fires, and loss of life, both from the above issues, and deaths of despair. It’s a very dark time. I’m questioning my sanity for even being in this business, but know in my heart of hearts that this is where I’m supposed to be.

When asked about the most important aspect of Star Wars, George Lucas said “Give them hope.” In a time like this, that’s as relevant as ever, if not more so. I did that post on “Star Wars and Moral Certainty” last year, and compared it to what The Lord of the Rings was to my generation. A story about good and evil in a time when we were suddenly reminded that evil actually exists. Stories help us understand the world around us, and yes, give us hope. Or they can, if done properly. But beyond that, I’ve also seen the good it does for the people who are on the team, who work with us. I recently interviewed them, and was surprised by what they said. I knew there was growth, confidence, and a sense of community, but I was floored when some of them said it also gave them a sense of purpose. It would seem that, in a dark world, even my fumbling attempts at being a filmmaker can be a light.

This year knocked us down and stomped on us, but we train in melee combat every Sunday, so I guess that’s my home turf. Heh, I once said that being told something is impossible gets the response of, “So… Tuesday, then?” So, in the end, it’s okay that 2020 was the year that poured water on all my hopes and dreams. Because now, if any of this takes off, it means that there was fire from heaven.