I wrote this last week, and wasn’t ready to put it out there. But when I started to work on the next piece, it didn’t want to get written until I released this one from my subconscious. So here it is. If it isn’t uplifting, my weak apologies.
If this week were a Diwali season action movie, I would be the disheveled but eyelined heroine who starts an explosion in a warehouse, then walks away leaving the inferno raging behind her.
As other heroines before me have pointed out, I tend not to leave my messes behind. So the fire follows me, and I end up putting out all its little manifestations, singeing my hands and coughing up soot and apologizing to everyone who has to encounter my ragey flames.
Not this week.
Free from the debt of apologies, these are the soul fires whose flames are reflected in my eyes—
For the hours of screaming, a fire.
For the interrupted thoughts, a fire.
For the late nights and early mornings, a fire.
For the punishing physical pain, a fire.
For the neglected relationships, a fire.
For the burden of self recrimination, a fire.
All these soul fires should leave behind a pleasantly cliched spirit of cleansing and rebirth. But such is not the nature of this journey. The ashes cling to my clothes, the soot becomes part of my DNA, and the embers stoke the next inferno.
The signposts back to my familiar life have been burned away. Eyes forward. Bring only your dependents. Everything else will scatter, or return to the earth.