i’m thinking lately about this strong association and identification with fire. i’m thinking about where i am in the cycle. this is not the sultry, smokey embers catching. this is not the heady rush that precedes flashpoint. this is not the giddy burning that is to be engulfed and enflamed.
this is, i think, the banking point… the leaping fire diminishing, the coals going quiet with soft crackling as they settle, the embers delving with magma-esque glowing to deep places to lay in wait, to rest. from within the charcoal depths, i peer into the world, i listen and wait…. for a good, stiff breeze, for a passing bit of tinder to reach me, for anything upon which to feed, to feast. no less willing to rise, but weary for lack of nourishment.
the one poignant weakness of fire rests in its inability to more than feed from the world around it. it can transmute most anything, but lacking air or materials to work with, is powerless. it is then that it turns upon itself, a willing cannibal. in such ways do tiny embers, resting in ashes, eventually wink out… the last gasp caught upon a final intake of breath as the last giving is sent up…. one tiny wisp of smoke and then, nothing.
i am not yet that desperate cannibal. but i am all too aware of the quiet, ashy place in which i rest. the saving grace, i remind myself, is that i am not truly fire, but fenix.
i long for rebirth.