It is November 2016. The election has taken place, and we are gathering around a fire.
We are in my backyard. It is early November and the air is cold. The flames grow strong our portable fire pit, and there is barely enough room for our group to gather around it in our postage stamp of a yard. Still, we gather.
At first, there is silence. Despair hangs in the hair, as heavy and potent as the smoke scented with the incense and flower petals we sacrifice to the heat. Heat roils and curls off of the first embers as the fire eats our silence. We continue to throw beauty into the heat and hunger.
There is distress, pain, rage and restlessness. We discuss the ways in which we might respond, might do something, anything, and I wonder if any of our actions will really matter in the long run. The blaze hears our words and consumes them, flames licking the air hungrily while the burning wood hisses a song to the night sky.
The group leaves my home late in the night, and the fire eventually dies down to a rumble and glow. I smell woodsmoke on my skin and in my hair; I have been cleansed, but I am far from clean. Fire is a hungry witness, and demands more of me than easy words and misery without accountability.
Fire acts. Fire transforms.
I know in my heart I must ask as much from myself.
Thank you Blaze.