fire

There is a beauty to destruction. It’s difficult to admit when faced with the reality of people losing their homes. But the fact remains that the sunset through the smoke has a mystical quality to it. Fire has long symbolized destruction and rebirth. Phoenix from the flames. Burn down and grow new from the ashes.

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D.H. Lawrence captured this rebirth in his poem, “Phoenix”

“Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, cancelled,
made nothing?
Are you willing to be made nothing?
dipped into oblivion?

If not, you will never really change.

The phoenix renews her youth
only when she is burnt, burnt alive, burnt down
to hot and flocculent ash.
Then the small stirring of a new small bub in the nest
with strands of down like floating ash
shows that she is renewing her youth like the eagle,
immortal bird.’

There is a fire consuming 5000 plus acres of forest near my home.

It’s not close enough to harm me, unless something drastic happens with the wind and we lose all firefighting capabilities, but there have been a lot of evacuations with more to come.

This was my view this evening, after the wind shifted. It went from 600 acres to eating up 5000 plus acres in a matter of hours.

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There are firefighters and aerial water drops and I don’t know what all but people are out there risking their lives to try to contain this massive fire.

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My heart goes out to the people who have had to run ahead of the storm, whose homes are at risk and who might return to charred remains of a lifetime worth of memories.

I hope the nesting Peregrines found their way out of the forest before the flames.

And I wish luck and cooperative weather to the people on the front lines at Granite Mountain and beyond.

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time

April and May are difficult months for me. They are full of celebrations – my birthday in late April and my mom’s birthday in mid-May, and of sadness – the anniversary of my dad’s death in early April and memory of his birthday in early May.

For the past six years, I start to feel dread as spring draws near. It is odd to stress over these dates; nothing new will happen on that day. He won’t die again. But it is a date that is a solid reminder of the event itself and the number of clock turns since that awful day.

The feeling has definitely lessened over the years and has changed from that apprehension into more of a lingering sadness. The first few years, I could barely mention him without crying. But time has a way of smoothing out pains, and for the last few years I’ve been able to make jokes and tell stories about my pop without too much accompanying grief.

A few days ago I started thinking more about the upcoming anniversary of his death, April 9th. It’s a Tuesday. Each year I try to do something special, even if it’s just lighting a candle in the evening and spending some time thinking about him.

I haven’t decided what I’ll do this year. It’ll be almost a new moon that night. Now that I live in the mountains with our beautiful clear skies, perhaps I’ll go look at some stars.

identity

Tonight I went to my first Zumba class. For those of you that don’t know what Zumba is, from what I could tell from the class, it’s a light dance class that is supposed to be aerobic. I doubt my heart rate ever hit aerobic levels this evening, but I can see how if I did it regularly and perhaps for two hours instead of one, it could be decent exercise.

One of the reasons I could tell I wasn’t working that hard was because I spent a fair amount of time thinking. And that means I wasn’t being forced to concentrate on a difficult workout.

A few thoughts wandered around my head included the idea that I wanted to go do some weight lifting after class. I like it when I feel the ache and pull in my muscles, and this class was not satisfying that craving.

Another thing that struck me was that I didn’t feel comfortable. Yes, it was my first class and the new dance steps occasionally caused me to bump into the person next to me, but it wasn’t that. The feeling was that this wasn’t my thing. It just didn’t click. The music was ridiculously auto-tuned and the moves were what stands these days for sexy, but I found them rather unappealing and awkward (boy does that sentence make me sound old. Ha!) I considered what it would take to get certified so that I could host a Punk and/or Metal Zumba class. Wouldn’t it be great to Zumba to Iron Maiden and Bad Brains? Throw in some Cranes and Pixies just for a change of pace?

I started to wonder what it was that didn’t ‘click’ for me and why. What is it about me that wasn’t drawn to this? And what defines me as the me that didn’t quite get that type of dance exercise? Was it that I don’t like poorly created music? Was it because of the ungainly movements? What about this Zumba class did I define as “not me?”

Seems a bit existential for a Zumba class.

I like that.

Maybe I’ll go again.