A recent hike has me thinking about scars. 

Lately my family has taken to romping through one of Napa’s local treasures, Westwood Hills Park. It's a lush, shady hike year-round, complete with fragrant groves of eucalyptus and oak, rolling meadows, and breathtaking vistas at its highest peaks.  (I should also add that it is a local favorite because, despite those high peaks, it's easy enough that little kids can do it.)   These hikes make our insides sing this time of year, because if it's not a rain day, the valley is just so green.  It is a sight to behold.  This year, however, we have a view to which we are unaccustomed: woven into the green hills are mottled sections that, despite the rain, are still a lifeless, pasty brown.  And then there are others that stand out an even more flamboyant green than their neighbors.  Both phenomenon, it turns out, are the natural result of fire damage.  

What grows back after wildfire?  The question sits on our eastern horizon every day. 

The modest hill that rises up behind my friend's Yountville home was covered in flames four months ago; today it is so much greener than the unscathed hills next to it, that it seems to be blatantly showing off.  It's almost offensive.  It is a testament to this good news: what grows back after fire can be newer, fresher, greener.  The Pacific Biodiversity Institute validates what Napa locals can see by looking out their back doors: Overall, fire is a catalyst for promoting biological diversity and healthy ecosystems. It fosters new plant growth and wildlife populations often expand as a result.  So.  Catastrophe descends upon our valley, and yet some things come back better and stronger?  The fresh undergrowth might be three miles away, but the metaphor is close enough to touch.

It's hopeful.  It's also a little heavy.

As brilliant as the new "baby ecosystems" are, only a blind eye could miss the blackened splotches that are as equally pervasive.  They resemble old rags that have been tossed over our mountaintops, threadbare and torn.  And sickeningly huge.  Life after fire is not guaranteed in every case, it turns out.  The University of Nevada Cooperative Extension published a fact sheet some years ago explaining what several other publications confirm.  Not all fires are created equal, nor are all plants.  Fire temperature and duration of heat exposure will cause variations in how ecosystems recover.  Invasive weeds can take over in the process of regrowth.  Certain seeds are throttled into life by fire's heat, but if that heat is too hot for too long, even those seeds will be too cooked to grow.  Sometimes, catastrophe is too much to take. 

NASA's images of the burn scars that surround Napa are sobering.  They make every blade of grass feel like a gift.  Our region was terribly lucky to avoid the mudslides that followed last year's fires near Santa Barbara.  But do they guarantee bigger, better, stronger?  Nature suggests that only guarantee we have, is different.

My family has a scar of its own, and our own metaphor of difference and re-growth in which to wrap ourselves.  That story is what has truly filled my husband's heart and mine on those hikes I mentioned earlier.  When we take in the view of the mottled hillsides, a smaller view in the foreground is what steals our breath.  It is the silhouette of our son's head, framed by extra-large translucent ears, and a neat white scar that runs through his hairline and down the back of his neck.  There is a story behind that little white line; there was a time when I prayed daily that his neurosurgeon's optimism was well-grounded, and that someday he would move like other boys and girls.  Now, my pint-sized little beacon races his father and sister and me up his favorite trees and trails.  Ask any parent who has been told that their child might not have the same full facility as their peers:  even the view in Napa, even in February, pales in comparison the sight of that child running and jumping as easily as they can blink.  

When I see my son's scar- a reminder of one of my family's most difficult seasons- I am grateful.  We do not take a single skip, trip, or climb for granted.  But it is not tied up so neatly as that.  Learning that your child has a painful and limiting physical anomaly sucks.  After corrective neurosurgery at the ripe old age of 18 months, we did not (and still do not) wait patiently smiling to see how he heals, tracing the silver lining with our contented sighs.  We wait and watch the re-growth because it is the hand we were dealt.  It's all we can do.

My family is lucky: things grew back after catastrophe- but our landscape is different than it would have been otherwise.  Would we so relish the way our son runs (albeit in a silly crooked line) and rides a bike, had we not wondered if he would ever walk?  Probably not.  Would my husband and I be the same, had our families not brought us through a time when we were constantly on the brink of crumble?  No.  Like most humans, I prefer to avoid tragedy.  I'd like there to be no need for resilience, physical or otherwise.  But I am grateful for resilience nonetheless.  I am also so aware that, in the wake of trials, even the best outcomes still leave you changed.

At the highest point in our family hike, the hill crests to reveal Napa’s eastern horizon. From our perch on the trail, we can see the peaks and crevices running north to south, throwing long shadows in the afternoon sun.  In front of us, our kids are waving sticks in the air and playing pirate.  The neat white line down the back of my son's head is still there, but it's not the only thing we see.  We see him bouncing as he lunges through the grass.  We see his goofy cowlick flopping in the breeze.  Beyond that, we see clear skies where there once was smoke, and we see mountains that have been here for thousands of years.  Last February, they looked one way.  Now they look another.  For the fortunate, growth continues and brings change.  In some cases, seeds flourish.  In others, they will need more time.  In every case, things are different.