It Begins with a Call: Carrying Fire (Part 15)

Left, right,

One click, two.

It rises, it settles,

it shudders like wind

through the channels

of my body –

gut, throat,

esophagus, bowel,

right breast, left occiput.

I went out into some sort of wood

because a fire was in my head.

(Yeats understood.)

It is a fearful thing to carry fire.

If it has made a home inside me

(it has made a home inside me)

I must begin to recognize and honor it,

whether or not I understand

what it wants of me.

Maybe it will incinerate me

like a half-starved Terezin corpse,

like a house in the Tubb’s fire,

like Kalapana in Pele’s wake.

Maybe it will warm me and set me to glowing,

if I can honor it, carry it, lay down offerings

and see who the old woman on the road really is.

The fear, the beauty, the magic.

The necessary.

The elemental.

The Story As Told By Fire

Burning in the Santa Barbara mountains, the sky over L.A. thick with smoke. Heat.  Days of 100 degrees plus, even with the sun obscured by our burning.

Here and there we spark, ignite, causing helicopters to rise up over Topanga.  We permeate all, send animals scurrying, dirty the lungs of mammals, spread here, spark there.

Cars parked, nose out, keys resting on the drivers' seats for a potential quick get-away on the single narrow road threading downhill towards the highway.

Solstice arrives at 3:00 PM.  There is a ceremony outside on a patio covered with many umbrellas that block direct sun but make no dent in the 112 degree heat.

What do you divest, divest, divest yourself of, from?

We pervade, we seep into an unwilling home.  She sees us as a curse, not a gift.  She is deeply afraid, of herself, of us.  We don’t care about that.  We are, we are, we look to rise, we need to burn, we will find homes, invited or not.  We are glorious.

There is an occipital opening in which we take refuge.  Cool air, wet towels, salt in the drinking water, Ibuprofen, do not stop us, or even have much impact.  There is not enough water to balance us.

She knows, doesn’t want to know us.  From early childhood, she knew her fires weren’t to be trusted.  Her mother told her so.  She was too temperamental, too angry.  “Damp the fire down, girl.  No man will want you.” 

She knows us.  Born under a fire sign, how could she not?  She damped us down.  But we are stoked again.  How can she be authentic without us?