I am on fire.
I sat by a quiet fire this week and watched the flames dance and burn. It surged, abated, raged, finally quietly sizzled and deadened itself in its own chug of black smoke. Leaving a charred piece of wood, used up and tired. Not quite useless, dry enough that it was still ready to burn again at the flicker of a flame.
How to dance rather than be danced by our flame? It is a delicate tango. The steps we take to find the space to forgive ourselves. Anger sometimes needs our arms wrapped around it, a wry smile to smother it. Other times it begs for a soft, loving, leading hand to take its own, so that it can melt. We have all known the inferno that needs water drenched on it and have lived the wildfire that burns until it is acknowleged.
When fury comes, we are a body in flames. There are homeopathic times when it is appropriate to meet like with like. Times to meet fire with flow. Then there are the collected, nourishing times when we sit quietly and watch ourselves roast inside until it passes. As though we had always been cool. Don’t be fooled, there is flow in fire, as much as flow, for flow’s sake.
Some fires need to burn out, they need to be left to blaze, bright and fast and furious, until there is nothing but the ash of awareness. Watching this fire can be painful but it is better to observe it, than be burnt daily by each lick of the flame.