In a few hours the prairie behind our house will catch fire. It will start small, a single orange tongue. But it will spread quickly, indiscriminately, until the whole field is ablaze. I will sit in my great-grandmother’s rocking chair in the sunroom and drink my coffee black and watch the place I love go up in flames, an erosion of tears on my cheeks. There is wisdom in the process, sure, but there is also horror in destruction. What’s the point of pretending like there’s not? Only after grieving can the earthen hand of wisdom really be trusted.
Friend. FRIEND. This is incredible. Your words blow me away. Carrying this fire with me today. And just so damn honored (if that is the right word? in awe?) to be your friend in the midst of this rewilding.
I love how you repeated the first part at the end. How often do we learn along an essay and wish we could go back to the top and soak it in. Thank you and may the timely destruction lead to resurrection
You know what? I never thought folks whose land had prescribed burns would mourn. I totally get it. Thank you for how carefully you described this for us.
I'm experiencing a bit of a prescribed burn -- or, bracing myself for one -- and I'm fighting the urge to run from it. I think I need to imagine myself in that chair on the porch cradling the mug. And realizing it's still good to mourn.
Thank you for this. Your words are always a comfort and balm, especially as I navigate the wilds of my own faith journey.
The more I learn about fire ecology, the more I view it as a stunning metaphor for life. Without disturbance to lay the field bare, the prairie will become overtaken with invasive shrubs that choke out the health and diversity of the ecosystem. The native seedbank lies dormant, waiting for the flames to make way for their renewal. The incredible store of root biomass anchors the prairie while the fire burns, locking up carbon, microorganisms, and diversity beneath what we can see, providing a secret cache of wealth underground. And the habitat has evolved to trust that these cycles will repeat. I’m trying to find peace with that myself.
Shannon! My own wildness dances to the surface as I read yours. It must be a cellular recognition like the prairie fire that "catches" when someone else speaks energetically, speaks the language of the untamed. Rome is burning, I am burning, the prairie fire burns close and personal from your grandmother's chair accompanied by black coffee (so vivid is this image!!) My prairie fire happened in the dead of winter with death and loss and disorientation and I have spent these months looking at that bleak landscape. Your words, your "wise", evokes that image within me. Such wonderful metaphors. A controlled burn it was not; it left me standing in a blackened field. I agree that there is wisdom in the process, but grief and the need to lament mask it. Looking out at the blackened field....it is like a spider's web seemingly gone awry. No shape, no borders, no tidy limits to the burn. My spirit slowly recovers now because deeper knowing tells me that under the burned and seeming lifelessness, there is a greening occurring silently and always, with time, the gift of nature. I take refuge in your experience and the medicine of your metaphors.
Friend. FRIEND. This is incredible. Your words blow me away. Carrying this fire with me today. And just so damn honored (if that is the right word? in awe?) to be your friend in the midst of this rewilding.
I love how you repeated the first part at the end. How often do we learn along an essay and wish we could go back to the top and soak it in. Thank you and may the timely destruction lead to resurrection
You know what? I never thought folks whose land had prescribed burns would mourn. I totally get it. Thank you for how carefully you described this for us.
I'm experiencing a bit of a prescribed burn -- or, bracing myself for one -- and I'm fighting the urge to run from it. I think I need to imagine myself in that chair on the porch cradling the mug. And realizing it's still good to mourn.
What an apt reflection for today. Very moving. Thank you
Wow, what a world, what a world! You bring light to a blaze.
Beautiful <3. (And yes, what is a "controlled burn"??)
Saw the notification come through for this and the title alone captured me. Thank you for sharing this with the world
Thank you for this. Your words are always a comfort and balm, especially as I navigate the wilds of my own faith journey.
The more I learn about fire ecology, the more I view it as a stunning metaphor for life. Without disturbance to lay the field bare, the prairie will become overtaken with invasive shrubs that choke out the health and diversity of the ecosystem. The native seedbank lies dormant, waiting for the flames to make way for their renewal. The incredible store of root biomass anchors the prairie while the fire burns, locking up carbon, microorganisms, and diversity beneath what we can see, providing a secret cache of wealth underground. And the habitat has evolved to trust that these cycles will repeat. I’m trying to find peace with that myself.
Oh so good. Good.
Shannon! My own wildness dances to the surface as I read yours. It must be a cellular recognition like the prairie fire that "catches" when someone else speaks energetically, speaks the language of the untamed. Rome is burning, I am burning, the prairie fire burns close and personal from your grandmother's chair accompanied by black coffee (so vivid is this image!!) My prairie fire happened in the dead of winter with death and loss and disorientation and I have spent these months looking at that bleak landscape. Your words, your "wise", evokes that image within me. Such wonderful metaphors. A controlled burn it was not; it left me standing in a blackened field. I agree that there is wisdom in the process, but grief and the need to lament mask it. Looking out at the blackened field....it is like a spider's web seemingly gone awry. No shape, no borders, no tidy limits to the burn. My spirit slowly recovers now because deeper knowing tells me that under the burned and seeming lifelessness, there is a greening occurring silently and always, with time, the gift of nature. I take refuge in your experience and the medicine of your metaphors.