Into the Fire

It all started when I noticed an odd book on my desk that I have had on my desk for probably eight years. I never bought this book; I won it by having my ticket pulled at a writer's festival. It was an odd shaped book--about three inches cubed, so it never fit on my shelf. Inside were all kinds of writing prompts to help get you in the flow. I kept it, not so much to use the prompts for myself, but to get ideas for the writing workshops I taught. Yes, it took me eight years to realize that this toxically titled volume was what I saw sitting next to my computer as I wrote each day. I felt really dumb the day I realized what not-so-subliminal messages I had been sending to my brain. I wanted to get rid of the thing immediately.

I am not a book burner by nature, but felt that this book deserved a special kind of death. In my mind, I was already roasting marshmallows over it. But before I could execute my plan, I did some more spring cleaning. Even though I got rid of a lot of books in our move, I started looking through the volumes that were left with a more discriminating eye. Which books no longer served me or the person I was here and now? Which books were out of date? Which books contained information I could not look up on the internet? I began to see subjects which I had outgrown or had outgrown me. I was not the same person who bought those books. Much like my Writer's Block book, their appearance on my shelf represented being stuck somehow in a reality than no longer served me. I boxed up two more boxes of books, these slated for the book sale at the Arden Fair.

Then, I came upon my old journals. I am talking--20 plus years of morning pages, reading notes, goals, dreams, etc. This maybe amounted to a banker's box of material. I had moved all these journals from our old house. I write in my journals to get out all my feelings and ideas. I don't write them for the idea of rereading them at a later date.  This became very apparent as I started to flip through them looking for evidence of their worth. In general, they were not records of my life so much as ways for me to work through my yearnings. Much of the journals were accounts of why I wasn't enough and my plans for increasing my worth. Why was I so miserable at my job? How could I lose weight? I recognized lots of Oprah-inspired questing in those pages. It wasn't all bad, but it was sort of stuck circling the same issues over and over again. Whining, but hopeful. I didn't want to see myself in those terms any more. I don't want to live my life as quest, but as appreciation for who I am and where I am in this journey. Add these to the burn pile.

And so, last night I joined with a couple other friends. We lit some tinder in a fire pit, opened a bottle of bubbly and proceed to burn, baby, burn. Only two of us were actually burning journals. Yes, we had moments of not wanting to burn any possible gems, but then we let go and the fire roared. It was beautiful. Journals turned into amber roses as the fiery pages curled around each other. It was mesmerizing. The burn took two hours, during which time we told stories and talked about our own journeys and incarnations. After my box was emptied of my words, I went home and showered. Washing away the smell and soot of the fire. It was baptism.

I don't know what I expect now. Clearer channels? Flowing words? Maybe. But I think I just want to move on into this new day in which I honor the person I am and the moment in which I find myself.