It's time to start writing again. I'm not writing on a daily basis, and this blog has been vital to my writing process in the past. It's like the t-shirt in my closet that I can't bear to give away, even though I'll go months at a time without wearing it.
I started in July, 2011 and wrote for 20 weeks. I went again in February, 2013 and wrote for 26 weeks. This time I'm aiming for 32 weeks. Wish me luck.
Suddenly, a quandary. I want to walk. I must not miss this experience. Firewalking while drumming is not one of my skills, but losing the rhythm is not acceptable. I make eye contact with a friend who can keep a steady beat, then I clench the djembe between my thighs and waddle towards him, playing all the while, until I have delivered my drum.
It's my turn. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that's what they say. My heart outpaces the steady djembe rhythms. I reach for a welcoming hand.
Hi John, I made a fire for you.
Thank you.
The coals look like red silk sugarcoated with ash. Everything is otherworldly. I feel like I'm in that scene in a movie where the camera zooms to a glowing focal point in slow motion, and everything else goes blurry.
I take a deep breath. I walk. The firemaker holds my hand and I take measured, deliberate steps. Straight up, straight down. Don't curl your toes, you don't want to pick up hot coals. Second step, third step. An ember sticks to my left foot and I feel it immediately. My body tries to speed up.
Get out of here, move!
But I resist. Careful, deliberate. Another two steps. I feel another ember stick to my right foot and it interrupts my breath. Another step. Almost there, don't run. Three more steps, keep breathing.
I step onto the grass. My feet are burning but I don't care. I am exhilarated. A good friend and mentor stands with his arms open and I dive into a bearhug.
Let me feel your power, he exclaims!
I imagine what all the energy coursing through my body might look like in this moment. I imagine glowing red and electric blue and neon yellow lines of flux that resonate all through me and arc across my limbs and sing in time with the drums. Flames dance through my vision. There's never been a better time to be on fire.
My hands are shaking. I drift over to my where my partner waits for me, and I take her hand. I step into a bucket of cold water.
You just walked on fire, she says. Holy schmoly.
I know. Feels good, man.
My body feels charged, like I could shoot sparks from my fingers. I drop into a chair and feel my heart pounding against my chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like they say. Deep breaths. I wriggle my dripping toes in the cool dirt and let the fire sink into the earth through my radiating feet.
I walked on fire.
I started in July, 2011 and wrote for 20 weeks. I went again in February, 2013 and wrote for 26 weeks. This time I'm aiming for 32 weeks. Wish me luck.
I hadn't planned to walk on fire.
I'm camping with my tribe of body ritual practitioners on a beautiful lake shore, beneath a canopy of green in the shadow of the Lillooet and Douglas mountains. I feel an early bedtime coming on, but my partner joins me beside the fire and someone hands me a djembe, so I stay. And I play the drum slow and steady while the logs burn low.
It's story time. We listen to tales about fiery celebrations and Hindu gods, sacred flames and cleansing embers that turn the past into ash. Instructions are proffered, dangers acknowledged. Feet shuffle and coals beckon.
It scares me every time, says the firemaker.
He rakes the coals smooth and straight and long. He steadies himself, and then he takes the first walk. Another drum finds its way into the circle. We play with excitement and resonance. My friends take the firemaker's hand one-by-one and walk the glowing red path. The moon is huge and full and yellow, and feels terribly appropriate for the proceedings.
I'm camping with my tribe of body ritual practitioners on a beautiful lake shore, beneath a canopy of green in the shadow of the Lillooet and Douglas mountains. I feel an early bedtime coming on, but my partner joins me beside the fire and someone hands me a djembe, so I stay. And I play the drum slow and steady while the logs burn low.
It's story time. We listen to tales about fiery celebrations and Hindu gods, sacred flames and cleansing embers that turn the past into ash. Instructions are proffered, dangers acknowledged. Feet shuffle and coals beckon.
It scares me every time, says the firemaker.
He rakes the coals smooth and straight and long. He steadies himself, and then he takes the first walk. Another drum finds its way into the circle. We play with excitement and resonance. My friends take the firemaker's hand one-by-one and walk the glowing red path. The moon is huge and full and yellow, and feels terribly appropriate for the proceedings.
Suddenly, a quandary. I want to walk. I must not miss this experience. Firewalking while drumming is not one of my skills, but losing the rhythm is not acceptable. I make eye contact with a friend who can keep a steady beat, then I clench the djembe between my thighs and waddle towards him, playing all the while, until I have delivered my drum.
It's my turn. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that's what they say. My heart outpaces the steady djembe rhythms. I reach for a welcoming hand.
Hi John, I made a fire for you.
Thank you.
The coals look like red silk sugarcoated with ash. Everything is otherworldly. I feel like I'm in that scene in a movie where the camera zooms to a glowing focal point in slow motion, and everything else goes blurry.
I take a deep breath. I walk. The firemaker holds my hand and I take measured, deliberate steps. Straight up, straight down. Don't curl your toes, you don't want to pick up hot coals. Second step, third step. An ember sticks to my left foot and I feel it immediately. My body tries to speed up.
Get out of here, move!
But I resist. Careful, deliberate. Another two steps. I feel another ember stick to my right foot and it interrupts my breath. Another step. Almost there, don't run. Three more steps, keep breathing.
I step onto the grass. My feet are burning but I don't care. I am exhilarated. A good friend and mentor stands with his arms open and I dive into a bearhug.
Let me feel your power, he exclaims!
I imagine what all the energy coursing through my body might look like in this moment. I imagine glowing red and electric blue and neon yellow lines of flux that resonate all through me and arc across my limbs and sing in time with the drums. Flames dance through my vision. There's never been a better time to be on fire.
My hands are shaking. I drift over to my where my partner waits for me, and I take her hand. I step into a bucket of cold water.
You just walked on fire, she says. Holy schmoly.
I know. Feels good, man.
My body feels charged, like I could shoot sparks from my fingers. I drop into a chair and feel my heart pounding against my chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like they say. Deep breaths. I wriggle my dripping toes in the cool dirt and let the fire sink into the earth through my radiating feet.
I walked on fire.
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