Tonight, under a clear, star-scattered sky, I burned a bad time in my life. It’s been a long while since I held a fire ritual, the letting go of what no longer serves me well. Something about flames and purpose gives me a sense of a fresh start. And that’s where I am right now – cherishing the moment, recognizing the hard work that’s led me to this sweet time.
For the past couple weeks I’ve been clearing old files, digging through storage bins, drawers, closets, and cupboards. I’m astounded at what I’ve found. Things I didn’t remember owning. Or writing. Things I’ve kept for no rhyme or reason.
In the bottom of a drawer I found my old journals. When my first marriage ended, and for several years after, I poured my guts onto paper, frantically trying to figure things out and fix myself. While reading through a few pages this evening I wanted to reach back in time and smack that girl I was then, the one who so willingly took all the blame and cried how all her dreams had been destroyed. Maybe slightly amused pity is a better response. Because life has turned out almost exactly the way I wanted it to, despite my fears I’d never be happy again.
I watched the smoke from those journals curl away from me, like a living thing. A satellite eased across the sky; hundreds, maybe thousands, of frogs croaked melodiously while I sipped blackberry brandy and snuggled deeper into my coat and scarf. And I let it all go.