TOPANGA. Finding My Way Back Home 

A Visitor’s Reflection on Topanga

Some people actively search for a place of comfort their entire lives. A lifelong quest of sorts— but sadly the endeavor often goes unrealized. Others, without conscious awareness experience the longing itself, but never identify or prioritize it to the level of a pursuit. It lives in the shadows of their mind, much like an unscratched itch or a disturbing disquietude. Still others may go about life willy nilly, not fully comprehending its absence. It’s always a shock when that happens since it seems so fundamental to peace of mind. And then of course there are the fortunate ones who have always had it, having come by it naturally or found it early. What I’m talking about of course is a sense of belonging. That deep-seated psycho-emotional identification of “home”.      

When news of the wildfires reached the east coast where I live, the horror of it all emotionally paralyzed me. The TV coverage, the videos, streaming, newspaper reports, texts, emails, phone calls, the constant “Watch Duty” app alerts on my phone that my son who lives in LA sent me that chimed every few seconds.    

I could barely survive the fires and the devastation from 3000 miles away—in complete safety mind you—much less imagine what it was like to actually be here, to bear witness, to be awash in fear of life, limb, and property as the winds propelled the flames further and further afield. Fire everywhere. Where she lands nobody knows. No place was safe. All of us Easterners, in pain for you, fearing for you, feeling for you, but in no way comparably suffering like you, observed immobilized. All of us, distant and afar, felt as helpless against nature as nomadic tribes in biblical times. Helplessness is the psychological equivalence of irrelevance. Does humanity matter?   

I’ve been a faux Californian, if you will, for most of my life. For decades, actually. It began in the Bay Area at first, San Francisco in particular—where I left my heart—but over the years it spread up and down the coast, and inland too, from SoCal to San Rafael and Walnut Creek to Oakland, Berkeley, and Mt. Shasta. Along the way, besides all the major national parks, Palm Desert, Palmdale, Pasadena, Altadena, Ojai, Ventura, Santa Barbara, and so on. Yet somehow, the unrelenting tug of emotional gravity always drew me back to the Topanga hills.  

It’s the rhythm mostly, I think. Both the soulful rhythm of the people and their synchronicity with the topography itself. I believe such powerful connections are rare, where the intangible and the palpable become one. If so, then this explains for me how you can leave your heart in one place, and then, not so surprisingly, find it hiding—right out there in the open—somewhere else. Too often, in our ambition and impatience—especially in our least humble moments—we forget that we are no more than a whimsy of nature itself. 

I was cautioned about making this current trip to the west coast. The unpredictable winds. Fires erupting from nowhere. The embers. The toxins—in the water, in the sea, in the air. My kids, taking their young daughter out of town to the south so she could breathe. I could volunteer maybe. Help in some way. Show my support by my presence. LA was not enough. It had to be Topanga. Otherwise why go? How do you explain to people that where you live is not necessarily what you identify as home. “Living” is pragmatic (unfortunately). “Home” is an emotion. It’s visceral. 

On the East Coast “Malibu” is a known quantity. “Oh no! Not Malibu!,” some shrieked. Tears appeared. The Pacific Palisades? Well, most were unsure. What, the Palisades? Where’s that? Don’t the rich live there? Then, the inevitable. The blank stares. You’re going where? Topanga? What’s Topanga?    

It’s a way of life, I said. How else can you explain it? It’s one of those known unknowns to those who know. I can’t remember the first time I discovered the Hills. It was just too many years ago. But I damn well remember leaving. “Resistance” is the closest descriptor I can think of.  It’s hard to convey in words my sense of defiance. Staying at the time was not an option, but returning was always in the cards. This was not over. Not by a long shot. 

Yet loss, in any form, is a powerful teacher, putting you much closer than with any other emotional tool to knowing your own heart. In my mind the Topangans have always been a strong, persistent and consistent people. Somehow the term “solid” pops into mind. Solid, a human quality you don’t find much these days as the world turns. Losing touch with the Topangans, real or imagined, is not something you take lightly. From my way of thinking, Topanga is not merely a place, but even more importantly, an idea. 

It was this exalted idea, the safety of my kids, and my inexplicable need “to be there” that compelled me to call the airlines. My son’s evacuation order intensified the panic. My wife and I were on our way. I fell asleep on the couch. Emotional exhaustion. The first dream terrified me. I saw a penetrating gooseneck of super-saturated orange flame snaking through the canyon past the village and setting Edelman Park ablaze. I leapt off the couch with an audible scream. On a photo shoot once, in the San Gabriels, I once shot a surreal picture of an apple sitting in the nook of a tree. In my second dream the apple burst into flames melting my camera. 

I convinced myself it would be okay. The Topangans are steadfast. They never relinquish. They never cop out! Under pressure from within, from without, from harsh realities to internal conflict—from what I know anyway, from the outside looking in—unity, sanctity, love and care for each other always prevails. 

It’s animated. Dynamic. Rugged. Challenging, yet reaffirming. Switchback roads, whipping you this way and that, just like life. Roads no bigger than crevices leading to places only a few know exist. Existence, simultaneously manifesting in the physical, social, and emotional dimensions, all naturally embedded in the everyday. My take: the heart of it is spiritual.  

“You can’t get there from here.” I always heard it as a joke. But 27 was closed from Mulholland to the PCH. The only way in was through Calabasas. And that was only for residents. Visitors would have to wait. I never felt like an outsider before in this warm, welcoming community, but here I was poking around on the outside and wishing I could knock knock knock on someone’s door. The glaring bright yellow sign on the 101 blared “Topanga…inaccessible…closed!” Who was I, amidst such tragedy—a seeker of hugs—to run short on patience. Just another reminder I told myself of man’s irrational nature and my own self importance. 

Why the lure? Well I gave you my take. But I can also tell you what I’ve heard. It’s a kind of bohemian place. A place for creative types—artists and musicians. Non-conformists. A hippie-dippie commune where the Beat meet. Writers. Theatrical types. All connected to each other and to nature— and to living for, and loving each other. Nothing is everything as they say, but I’d say that was pretty close. 

However, contradictions and polarities also exist, making Topanga even more interesting in depth. Community thrives as it does because isolation and privacy allow for it. Recluses often make the most intimate friends. 

I’ve always been welcomed in Topanga just as if I lived here. The bonding, with all comers, is immediate. When 27 opened I was on it. The sign on the 101 read “Topanga accessible.” The merchants asked, “Tell everyone we’re open and on the way back. I did what I could. I decided in my small way to become a walking billboard: I bought Busto and Sun’s “Topanga Town Open” cap.  

In 1667, John Milton published his epic poem, “Paradise Lost”. The wildfires of 2025 tried to steal it from us— paradise that is. But the irony for me is in the poem’s underlying theme: free will vs. predestination. Do we create our own path or do we just follow one? The answer I believe is both in your heart and in those winding roads and rolling hills of the Topanga countryside. 

When I googled the origin of the word “Topanga”, I found two meanings: “where the mountain meets the sea,” and “a place above”. Somehow, amidst the fear and loathing, and with great thanks to the firefighters and first responders, somehow or other I found my way back home.

By Paul Rappoport

Paul Rappoport is a psychologist and photographer whose interests and activities include eastern philosophy and meditation, martial arts, physical fitness, public speaking, and music. His writing over the years has covered a variety of areas outside of psychology, including music, politics, travel, and more.

Paul Rappoport took
the photos of the
faces on the fence at
Topanga Outpost along
Topanga Canyon Blvd.
They represent the
character, individuality
and free spirit of the
Topanga community.