Touching the Ember Within

After the session my friend gifted me this Carnelian flame.

I keep it in my pocket while adjusting as a reminder to keep my ember alive.

She let out a scream that made time stand still. Fists at first sheepishly then feverishly pummel the space in front of her. Knees collapsing inwards, unable to bear the weight of the life she was tethered to. Modelesque blonde hair air thrown over a face contorted in the raw emotion - the agony of at last facing a part of yourself you were too scared to look at because you knew it would destroy you.

For me, that moment had been brewing since the moment I had walked in the door that evening. For her it had been festering for a decade. As we spoke about our lives her body came into and out of touching that truth - her arms folded, shoulders rolled forward, gaze downcast and glancing. A weak smile and a laugh too small for her fierce spirit would diffuse the conversation each time she toed the precipice of actually feeling how she felt. Her body was recreating the bars blocking her spirit so that she wouldn’t have to acknowledge them. Many of us live this - first there is a prison outside, then the body itself conforms to the cage, then it crystallizes into a habit. A habit which becomes a program we run. The blueprint for a downsized life.

There was a difficult conversation she knew she had to have with herself. But it was shoved in the closet because the demands of kids and “the SLO life” gave her no space for it.

That night, however,  we did give space for it. Or rather, it demanded space. I showed her how to position her body to EMbody that rage that she wouldn’t let herself touch. It was spectacular to see the awkwardness and diffusion flit across face and body - a nervous smile, the head continuing to shift out of alignment, the neck jutting forward. All the defense strategies of an intelligent subconscious doing everything it could to protect her from the reality that she was hiding from. We breathed to build energy, realigning her posture again and again so she couldn’t run from it. Not anymore. It was time to fully experience, it was time to go into the void so she could be free again. So she screamed. And again. And again. Then tears. After ten years of festering and only fifteen minutes to actually move it.

There’s a special mischievous glint in the eyes of someone who’s connected to their wildness. It’s a fire that burns through the neutrality of talking about the weather, the cultural hypnosis of “shoulds” and “need to’s”. It’s the child who questions everything asking “why?” “what if?” “says who?” - there’s no fight in it, simply a disarming curiosity that pokes holes in the glass prison that we have built for ourselves in the bustle of modernity. As I give away most of my possessions, restructure my business, my service, and my life to move towards what feels most alive for me, I feel that glint return to my eyes. Others feel it too.

It’s that twinkle of Truth that has made these past two weeks of goodbyes, of wrapping up my life here in SLO, so precious. Every conversation is lit with an intensity of presence. It seems like everyone I talk to has something deep to say - I see sages and madonnas humbly shining through my people. I see words of genuine connection, appreciation, and vulnerability shared back and forth. It’s in the sparkle of our unfettered nature that others can reflect the pains, regrets, and compromises of their hearts - illuminated is the wildness they had forgotten they had lost.

In reconnecting to my own wildness I am realizing that this sense of wildness is essential for all of us. In sharing myself with others, in my wildness, I see how precious a gift this is - our authenticity. In an age of commoditization, disconnection, and domestication, where our very attention is itself a commodity, our wildness can slowly wither and die underneath all the minutia. Most of the time we are all playing the game of “don’t rock the boat”. Yet we all crave those experiences that shatter the quotidian and thrust us into the deeper, richer, rawer experience of life that we all know is possible. We’re left feeling like we left it somewhere - in childhood, in college, before we had kids, so on and so forth.

I fully acknowledge that I currently have a freedom that many others don’t have - I can give away my belongings and just up and move. I have no kids, no partner, not even a dog. I can’t pretend to advise others on what their wildness looks like; wouldn’t that be a contradiction anyways? Each person’s wildness is theirs. Your best life, writes Henry Miller, is your life (emphasis mine). I do, however, and I must believe that it IS available to all of us, somehow, in the context of this life. Things may need to change, yes, externally and internally. But how could wildness ever truly die, since it is our nature? If we are alive we are breathing and we are moving. We are, then inspired. We are inspirited. It’s the spirit that moves us - if we can breath, we can sing. If we can move, we can dance. That ember is always aglow within us, and it’s up to each of us to learn what stokes the flame.

It’s up to us, yet we can’t do it alone. Inspiration isn’t a solo act - it’s part of the web of interconnection that is our true identity. Art needs a beholder, and beauty is magnified as it’s shared and appreciated. Wise association, said the Buddha, is not half the path but the whole path. Connecting with those that light us up, we are literally enlivened - drawn back to Life. These weeks have inspired me to stoke the fire of my own wildness with the truth that living MY authenticity can galvanize others to do the same. I know that we’re all looking for ways to feel ALIVE. It feels scary, thrilling, overwhelming, and true to be moving towards what that means for me. And yet in everyone’s eyes I see this flame reflected back at me, growing brighter and brighter as I step into the Great Mystery.

Would it really be wildness if we had it all figured out?