A Mourning Insight

Flames flared as I sparked the lighter under grasses I’d collected and dried last year during weed-whacking season. One small flame traveled the length of one dried stick and lit at least 20 other thin reeds. Nothing stopped its travel in all directions, not even the damp kindling I’d propped on top. The billows of smoke told me something was perking underneath and sure enough, after what seemed like an inward gasp for air, fire whooshed through the pile.

I hadn’t intended to set off another burn pile this morning. I’d only intended to clean around the sweat lodge and fire pit after our women’s circle last evening. But when I saw the dew was still on the meadow grasses, I knew I needed to take advantage of the night’s moisture. “Neatening things up,” my dad would say. “Getting things done,” my mother would say. “Good job,” Y would’ve said. “Procrastinating,” I told myself.

My original plan for the morning was to clear the area, reposition the tarps to deter weeds, then work on the next quilted wall hanging. It’s not that I didn’t want to pursue a creative project. So maybe I wasn’t putting anything off.

Feeling the sun across my shoulders and smelling the freshness of the spring day, I had moved from one focus to the next. That’s how I’d ended up watching and tending the fire. From two other piles needing to be burned, I hauled branches and limbs, building this bonfire higher and larger. Suddenly I stopped and realized the more I piled on, the hotter the fire became, like when I set a direction to my thoughts.

My body became warm from the inside as an understanding brightened my awareness.

If I snag a thought that causes my reactive self to anger, I can pull in one thing after another to feed that anger until I’m ranting and raving in my mind and slamming around the house. If I start a thread of memory around my loss of Y, I unravel every memory of every moment in the hospital or here at home loosening my heart to a point where I cave into a puddle.

I stopped feeding the fire and just tended to it as it was. I saw it begin to burn itself out. With no fuel, the original flame consumed what was present. If I stop feeding innocent enough beginnings of fierce emotions, perhaps I won’t be over-ridden for days with rage or weeks with sorrow. I can choose when to stop feeding my consciousness with inflammatory details, and I can choose what to feed into my awareness.

Today it’s purple and yellow wildflowers cuddling the curves of a green, rolling landscape and the smell of burning wood.