I do love to light a fire, to burn things and watch the flames catch and change colors as the heat grows and dissipates. There is something about burning that is a relief, a shedding of what is no longer needed. There is an honoring, a hopefulness in the space made for what will come next.

Fires disturb the status quo, transforming and changing things permanently. Flames creep and crawl finding what is dried up, dead, and ready to be ignited. The heat and intensity of the flames speed up gradual decay, surpassing slow deterioration of organic matter. Fire consumes it all in one gulp before our eyes, hastening what might take years, decades, or centuries to ruin. It devastates our fantasy of permanence, making clear the truthfulness of what happens to all of us and everything eventually.

Late one night, when it was hard to be here without him, I sat on the floor of my bathroom with my back up against the tub, a place I sit when I need to feel the ground holding me. I was uncertain about how I would get through the night. At some point in my sitting and sobbing, I fell into the chasm of pain. I fell from the edge of resistance and fear, and just let go. It was there, in this dark dreadful place where I found the shock of all that had happened, not only in Edmond’s dying, but all the other shocking events I have experienced in my lifetime. The shock had accumulated and was a stirring sickness in my belly. It is a feeling I know too well, and loathe when it arises. Some of the shocking events, when the rug was pulled out from under me, I never saw coming, like Edmond’s death. Others, I probably should have anticipated. Regardless, the amount of jarring astounded me. I waited and waded in it, the shock and sick feeling. I tried to throw up, to be rid of it. At some point, I knew I needed to burn things.

It was late, after 11pm, and I was in no shape to do more than text a few friends, throwing a tether out for tomorrow. I texted my friend Amy, “When do you have time to burn shit? Calling it in, calling it out, fucking hell.” She responded the next morning, ready and willing. We made a plan and a gathering, a Wisdom Circle, came together.

In the fire pit that Edmond built, with all the ashes of all the fires we have ever burned there, a layering of kindling had already begun. The preparation for the burning ceremony had begun weeks before that fretful night on my bathroom floor.

When the house had begun to stink of dying vegetation, I placed the decaying flowers from Edmond’s Celebration of Life in the fire pit. Tossing them into the stone circle, I let go of some inkling of the anger over his abrupt departure and continued absence. I cried and threw flowers, less-than lovely bouquets, into the pit. I laughed at some point calling it a flower pit. It was piled high with paper thin petals, colors muted with no more life left in them and brownish stems that were no longer capable of pulling water upward against gravity to nourish leaves and blossoms.

On top of the dead flowers were shreds of prickly needles and the scale-like cataphyll leaves from a juniper tree. These unique leaves help the juniper retain water and survive drought conditions making them quite adaptive to the conditions in Central Texas. These evergreen trees can live anywhere from 400-750 years, and are critical to the habitat of the golden-cheeked warbler. The juniper debris in the fire pit came from a particular tree that stood at the top of our driveway, a pillar of the tree community, a guardian at the entrance to the driveway.

In late March, I had noticed that the leaves had turned copper while all the other trees around it were bursting with new green growth. Edmond and I lamented its probable death, and knew it would likely need to come down. It was not until a few weeks ago that our friend and arborist came to take down the large limbs and most of the trunk. He left about a five foot stump, a smaller pillar and remnant that a lizard immediately repurposed for sunbathing.

Juniper Guardian and Lizard Sunbathing May 2023

After examining its insides, our friend/arborist supposed that the years of drought allowed an over population of spider mites to flourish and cause significant damage to the tree, making it more vulnerable to the polar vortex freeze of 2021. Then, this year’s hard freezing rains were the final blow to its vascular system evidenced by the sap leaking and dripping down the gate beneath where the tree once stood tall. My heart broke with one more death, particularly since this tree was probably only 100-150 years old, too young. Its absence is remarkable as the sun casts light in so many new places that are no longer in the shadow and shade of the juniper guardian. Ellie and Jade threw down seeds in that now sunlit open space. And, I was grateful and not surprised when I saw that our friend and the tree’s friend placed the juniper bits, that could not be used as berms or shredded into mulch, in the fire pit.

The day of the burning, in order to ensure a safe fire area, I hand cut the tall overgrowth of grasses and wildflowers that grew around the fire pit. I threw these fresh cut green grasses and bright yellow and purple flowers on top of the other layerings.

We gathered, a circle of six around the circle of stones Edmond had cemented in place to form the fire pit. In reverence, we lit the kindling. The flames caught exhaling smoky puffs. It was magic happening before our eyes, mesmerizing us with flickering light, acute heat, and swirling smoke. Burning from the edges and underneath, a square of green remained for a long time, forming a small mountain shape. Smoke billowed from the fresh cut grasses on top of the pile like a volcanic eruption waiting to happen. Smoldering was this fire’s nature. Fitting, for it was a fire of deep grief and heartache.

We had each come with something to release into the fire. When it was my turn, I placed the orange and yellow floral patterned dress into the fire. He loved when I wore that dress. It was what I had been wearing when I came upon the office building ablaze with emergency vehicles with their flashing lights. Before Edmond was found and help called, before EMS had arrived, he was already dead, gone, his flame extinguished instantly. By the time I had arrived, everyone on site already knew that there was no hope, no life left in him. No words were needed to tell me this truth. I saw it on the face of my friend who walked toward me.

That dress I wore that day soaked up so much of the shock, and I needed to be rid of it, making ashes of it. The dress took a long time to burn, fire flickering from the tiny button holes. One of the members of our group gathered around the fire pit pointed out that most clothing comes with fire retardant chemicals. I wondered out loud if it had shock absorbers, too. Finally, after all our items had been reduced to ashes, our intentions fulfilled, we walked away from the fire pit to find solace in the pool nearby.

Fire with E February 2023 — In the last Stanza

of Mary Oliver’s poem, *Storage*, she speaks to the relief that the burning of things can bring:
I felt like the little donkey when
his burden is finally lifted. Things!
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love,
for the trees! For the birds who own
nothing– the reason they can fly.

Things are of little comfort to me, and they are often instigators for the grief. In his office on Friday, I picked up a small hourglass I had given him several years ago. I remembered how he used to call and say he’d be home in thirty minutes or an hour, needing to finish up a brief or response in a lawsuit. I was always appreciative of his call, his dedication to us, never wanting us to feel forgotten despite his focused attention on the task at hand. I never felt forgotten. And, I also knew that when he was focused, and there was a deadline, he would take the time it took to finish what needed to be complete and correct. I was not resentful. I understood his commitment to his clients and the work. It was his work in the world, his service, and I loved and respected that about him. So, if he said an hour, I added another 45 minutes to his ETA. Being exact was his superpower, so I gave him the time required.

Flipping the hour glass over and setting it on his desk, the sands slipped through the narrow opening. This is often how my days feel. Time crawls, especially through weekends or holidays when we would have lingered in leisure, no place to be other than right where we were.

Ellie wears his t-shirts nearly every day. I imagine they help her feel closer to him. It is not always a comfort to me to be surrounded by his things when he is not here and not coming back. It hurts to be in our closet with his clothes and mine. I sometimes avoid his side of the closet so I do not have to touch his shirts that used to touch him.

My own clothing reminds me of times when I wore a particular outfit at an anniversary dinner or on a family trip. I still wear my clothes because I still have places to go. His tools in boxes and hanging on the walls of his shop remind me he isn’t here to use them. I use what I must since I am still here to fix and repair and caretake. Burning it all will not take away the bittersweetness, the anguish, or despair.

Our children stop to watch the photos of him slide by on the digital frame. They usually have a gentle smile on their faces, seeing him and remembering the time spent together or how he was. They often have a conversation with each other about what they remember or wonder about related to the picture of Edmond. Lately, when I walk through the living room near the frame, I look away from the photos passing me as I pass them. I do not make eye contact with his image so I can avoid the conversation with the one who isn’t here.

We all grieve in our own way. Each of us feeling our way through uniquely, tangled and tripping over ourselves and his memory. His things, objects, and artifacts serve different purposes to each of us.

I am not even close to ready to sort through his things or clear them out. A clothes basket I could definitely use for our laundry still sits in his mediation spot filled with items I cannot bear to wash or touch or fold or hang. About a month after he died, I tried to smell some of it, to catch his scent, but it wasn’t there. Or it wasn’t enough to matter.

I also know he was never one to waste anything. So, when I ran out of toothpaste, I decided to use his tube. William wears his hats, and Jade can receive hand-me-down shorts and shirts. Using what is useful seems like exactly what he would do and want. I swear, some of his shirts are more than 30 years old, and still kicking.

I have a feeling there will be more fires in my future, so much to release and transform and let go. Birds are so lucky. I am sure I am not free or flying, but I have released another layer of the burden of this grief. I am more aware of the shock my body has carried. Certainly, after the greatest shock of all and burning the dress, I own less of it now. It is my prayer that I have delivered much of the jarring fear and terror to the fire to be transformed and transmuted so that no one will have to bear it again.

Fire from February 2023 when E and I burned limbs from the freeze.

Maybe I’ll have more room in my heart for love if I keep shedding layers. Perhaps the sun will shine in places that were once only part of the shadows. Maybe if I keep shedding layers I will be light enough to one day fly or maybe I will disappear entirely. Isn’t that what we do if we do not die young? If we must grow old, isn’t it our best option to reduce our lives to their simplest form? I hope I can use the second half of my life to shed the layers of this world, the conditioning and falsehoods to get to the core of what matters. Will that make any of this easier? What is at the very center if not my own fire, the ember of my heart, and my own eternal flame.

April 16, 2023 burning sage and herbs 12 days after E died.

Lighting Fires