Help Phoenix Rise From the Ashes of the River Fire

Our beautiful friend and Mythic Medicine employee Phoenix lost her home in the River Fire here in Grass Valley, CA on August 4th. We were in my hometown of Lake Tahoe that afternoon when we got a call about a fire nearby. We alerted Phoenix, who was at our place shipping orders, and she had just enough time to run home and rescue her cats Pierre and Pixie. The flames were feet away and she was only able to grab a few more items before fleeing as the fire closed in (read her firsthand account below).

Phoenix had finally found her sanctuary after years of unstable housing in a brutal rental market. A homebody and natural caretaker, her time off was spent tending her home, cats, plants, and self, making nourishing food and herbal medicines for herself and others.

If you have ordered anything from us this year, Phoenix's loving heart and wise hands played a role in its creation. From gardening to medicine making to bottling & labeling to shipping, her steady presence has allowed us to significantly streamline and increase production this year. She has also babysat Nixie (who adores her) while I worked on the Medicine Stories podcast. She is one of the kindest and most loving people we know, and we have been blessed to have her so thoroughly integrated into our family and our business.

She has no safety net. No renter's insurance, no savings (after years of financially recovering from an abusive relationship), and no family. Though she is feeling held by her community, what is needed now are the financial resources to replace what was lost (clothing is an immediate need) and to help her transition into a new living situation when that becomes available.

She is actively seeking any leads for a local long term rental (any landlord would be lucky to have her). Please comment or message her on Instagram (see below) if you have a lead.

Thank you so much for giving in any amount possible.

With love, Amber & Owen

Here are Phoenix's words from her Instagram post (@rainbowphenix):

On Wednesday, Aug 4, 2021 a campfire at the Bear River got out of control and turned into a fast moving wildfire that destroyed 88 structures, mostly homes, within just a few hours. My home was one of them. In June, after numerous moves within the county, struggling with housing insecurity and unpleasant roommate situations, I had finally found a studio, a home of my home, that I cherished so much. I took pictures of my laundry drying outside on the laundry line because that simple act of domesticity gave me joy. I was having friends over for dinners, building an apothecary, and being the total Taurus-hermit-kitchen witch that I am.

I feel extremely grateful that I was alerted of the fire in time via Amber Magnolia Hill aka @mythicmedicine my wonderful employer and friend who has also been graciously sheltering me and my cats. Amber and her family have held me with such grace and warmth, I don’t know how I would’ve endured this experience without them.

Driving towards that enormous plume of smoke that day to get my cats was the most terrifying experience of my life. As I turned off the 174 hwy onto the dirt road that leads 2 miles to my house, the plume of smoke was now above me and looked like a churning, angry tornado. It was like something from a movie. The surrounding hills were all ablaze. I parked in my driveway and saw flames 20 yards from the house, within the patch of manzanita trees, which are as dry as matchsticks. A voice in my head told me to sprint. I took two trips to the house and back. One with my arms full of my two cats in their carriers. And another trip to stuff clothes, family photos, and my teddy bear into my go bag. Strangely, I grabbed some quinoa from the fridge. But didn’t grab a treasured conch shell given to me by my late father. The mind works in strange ways under duress. When I was in the house, the power was out and it was eerily quiet, no sirens, and it didn’t smell of smoke. All I could hear was my very heavy breathing from the panic, and the voice in my head telling me to breathe, stay calm, and get out.

During my second trip inside, I paused for a brief second, wanting to take more things. But the voice in my head said, ‘you need to leave now because this house isn’t going to be here in 20 minutes.’

I locked the door out of habit, then looked down at my keys in my hand, and back at my front door, then back at my keys, and knew it would be the last time I did that mundane act at this particular front door. I sprinted back to my car and the flames were larger within the manzanitas. I did not pause to take a photo for social media. I did not pause or look back. I drove like hell out of there. And passed 2 sheriff’s cars on my way out. I have since heard that most of the homes in my neighborhood on Meyer Road are gone. I’m so sorry for the families that lost their homes and I’m grateful no lives were lost.

I have been held so graciously by my local community and my far off friends. I truly feel blessed that I heard about it in time and got to evacuate my cats safely. I am still in shock and it’s hard to think about the sentimental things I’ve lost. The pink and lavender tapestry my dad got during his spiritual sojourn to Turkey in the 1960s. My beloved sacred pipes and textiles I got in the Peruvian Amazon that were handmade by the Shipibo people. The vintage clothes I had been collecting since my days as a costumer in Los Angeles 15 years ago. My artwork and sketch pads.

But I also was given the name Phoenix. And believe it or not, I have been through worse. Losing my dad to pancreatic cancer in 2011, then later escaping the hold of a narcissistic abuser in 2016, the subsequent estrangement from my remaining family, and struggling with housing insecurity and dehumanizing jobs in 2019-2020...were honestly much worse.

I feel held by my community. I feel the support from my plant allies, ancestors, and angels. And I will rise up again. With wings of smoke and rainbows, I am Rainbow Phoenix.

PS pack a go bag, people. Even if you don’t think it’ll happen to you. Pack. A. Go. Bag.