Legend has it that there was a bird called a Phoenix back before Christ. Every few hundred years she built a pyre and burnt herself up. But every time she sprang out of the ashes and got herself born all over again. And it looks like we’re doing the same thing. We fall and rise from the dirt, we fall and rise, over and over. Just when you think you can’t, you push a little more and you rise again.
This post originally appeared here on Know Thyself Heal Thyself.
Rising From The Ashes
She strides bare-soled, reaching forward with confidence. The chilly night breeze made her semi-sheer wavy maxi dress move as if it was alive, her long dark hair flowing down her back.
There is an exchange of energy with every step as she landed her foot upon the earth. Occasionally she can feel the fine wands of grass tickling her soles. Once or twice, she stepped on twigs that felt like glass shards underneath her feet. No, she will not pause to check if there is a cut, she’s drawn towards the heat that was calling out to her soul as she made bold progress forward.
She has grown cold inside to escape the pain of isolation. She allowed her empathy to wither and die, a shield for the pain trapped in confusion.
As she exhales, a puff of cloud smoke billows out. She shifted her gaze to the flames rising boldly right ahead against the night sky. The bonfire lit up the night and warmed the air, chasing away the winter chill that hesitates to depart.
Her eyes reflect the flickering of the sparks that are flying above the treetops. It’s as if they are inviting her to their carefree dance, to leap, to fly, and land wherever it may.
The branches overhead moved in an eternal trance. Upon this chilly night, at a place no one will ever see, hot tears are falling fast, trickling down her neck. She felt the wetness of her skin as each drop emerged from her open eyes. She swallowed down the pain and wore a passive smile. Not long now, she heard her heart whisper.
As she drew closer, she could hear the sound. The smell and the taste fill the air. There is something about the flames that renders her content. Standing before the fire, her skin glows red, orange, and gold. The sight is mesmerizing with the crackling and the woody fragrance of smoke.
She pulled the loose straps off her shoulders and let her dress fall to the ground. Stepping over it, she moved slowly towards the enormous ball of rage, posture square to the flames.
She wants the fire to burn away the power of the painful memory so she could move on; so that traces of the memory no longer etched in her mind like words on a tombstone.
Closing her eyes, she stepped into the flames and felt the heat dry her skin, scorching, engulfed in the poetry of heat and light roaring upwards. The flames from the burning logs in the hearth reach into the deepest recesses of her mind.
Time had only festered the wound in her heart. The fire burns up her inner rage, melting every hurt and frustration as if they are the fuel to the roaring inferno. The unfettered flames, devouring hungrily, licking, and lapping all that’s alive and sacred within her, casting glorious sparks into the sky. Light illuminates the scorched ground as the burning smell lingers.
As she stood there, she could feel the flames as they render all that she had built these past years into cinders. Everything is leaving. It will all disappear by dawn, the memories, unrequited love, emotional scars. All consumed to ashes.
She stayed until the glowing embers died, until the wind blew cold once more. Amid the ashes, the spirit of the phoenix descends. She lifted her eyes and felt strong. With one breath, she spread her fiery wings. Her body blazing, burning brightly through the thick impenetrable smoke. The Phoenix, having endured cycles of fire and ashes, emerged as an angel of pure energy.
Rising from the ash is easy, it’s the burning she must endure.