The Fire Ceremony

On the dark moon of the 10th month of the 10th year of my twin daughters’ life, we had the fire ceremony.

It was not planned to be a casual ceremony. The new moon of the second harvest is not a casual time, especially for young women on the cusp of change. It was decided amongst the mothers, Claudia and myself, that we wanted to guide the girls to the fire of their womb, ignite the passion of the spirit, and invite them to examine the different faces of the flame. We imagined a beautiful moment elder to maiden. With this fairytale experience, we would call forth the regenerative and life-saving power of fire. At the same time we would honor the great destroyers: Kali Ma, Sekhmet, Coatlique, Pele. Fire—the dark goddess that relentlessly devours everything in her path, leaving only charred bones and ash.

Oh! How we imagined the unleashing of beautiful powerful fire within, dancing wildly to the flames of truth, dipping our toes into the forbidden, releasing the seeds of desire long hidden in shame-filled vessels by our ancestors. Honoring truth. Our truth. Real truth. The truth of our beings howling fearlessly as we plant our shaking feet on sinking ground—hands on our hips, lips pursed to an ebony sky.

Truth like the moon that grows dark and silent as we stumble around in shadows, then starts her journey to fullness, growing by slivers each of fourteen days, until her girth spills out in luminous glory only to fade again to glimmers of hope in the days that follow.

Truth like sorrow that follows joy in the same relentless cycle, leading us into the depths of midnight and then dropping us into unexpected brilliance over and over. After so many cycles of darkness and light, we should be expecting the radiance but it catches us off guard and steals our breath away each and every time.

Truth that sometimes sears with the shame of bad choices made that must be faced. Tumors that must be excised and scabs that must be scratched, so darkness can ooze and bleed and heal. These are the truths we beckoned on this dark moon of the second harvest, in the tenth month of their tenth year.

And then one of the girls, I don’t remember who said it first, said firmly. “I want a pixie haircut.” They all chimed in that they wanted one too. Having been momentarily swept up in the glorious vision of perceived redemption, I screamed. “Let’s cut our hair and throw it in the fire!” Carelessly I cast the words, “We will cut away all the sorrows, the regrets, the bad choices. Chop off fear and hurt and worry. We will sacrifice them to the fire and experience the transformation!”

One of my twins, Maria, announced. “I’m going to envision what I want, so that as the new hair grows in the new truth will grow in too.”

So mote it be. Five daughters casting intention into the universal cauldron. Two mothers - fighting desperately to shield their offspring from suffering in a world where women have to wade through generations-old sludge that tells them to be silent, be good, be obedient, be appealing, be small. Three raging infernos fit to explode. Two fire catchers poised to deflect anything that threatened to extinguish their glow, no matter how vast or how subtle. Two women desperately pounding their own embers to keep their flames alight, to reignite lost passions, birth new visions. Ancient sisters cursing Prometheus in breathy whispers for staking claim to the gift of fire. They carried that gift in their wombs for thousands of centuries before he came along, thank you very much.

It was a beautiful vision. Alas, magic this powerful has a tricky way of sucking you in by the soul and then combusting with such volatility that you find yourself begging for the familiar, no matter how uncomfortable or painful. Black smoke amidst hissing, crackling blasts that suck out the oxygen and leave you crawling on the ground, seeking the cool waters of recognition masquerading as home. That place where the past, despite the struggles, feels like the safest bet. The unknown is eternally unknowable. There is no easy path through the inferno. And once it has been scorched, you can never return. It will never be the same. Transformation. Alchemy. Fire.

And so it began.

First came the demands. “Cut our hair now!” Our motherly recommendations to ease into a new style were met with, “It has to be a pixie cut”. Then came the confession, an older girl had told Jeannie, my other daughter, whose experimentation with hair color had left a fading algae-green hue on her already short bi-level bob, that her hair was “ugly”. Claudia’s daughter, Sarah, reported that she, too, had been teased by this older, popular, girl. Her tomboyish natural beauty was mocked and ridiculed. “We want to show her we don’t care what she thinks!” Jeannie squealed gleefully. This proclamation was met with a triumphant, “Yeah!” from Sarah. Maria sat quietly. She knew the rules had just changed. She knew what was about to come.

Suddenly the empowered hair burn was anything but empowered. My anger began to swirl. “You mean, you are changing your appearance because of a mean girl?” They tried to backpedal but Mama’s coals were stoked. “What about truth? What about standing in your power?”

I tried to get to the bottom but they were deep in the coverup and it only made me more angry. The dragon had been awakened. “Mom, you know I have been wanting a pixie cut for a long time,” Jeannie pleaded, unconvincingly.

Sarah and Maria piped in too, “We are not doing it because of her, we really want it!”

Things were bouncing around. It was getting sticky and chaotic. Claudia and I now clawing through the layers. Do they really want it? Are they just trying to prove something to the older girl? Is this going to end up one of those “moments” that scar their youth and strangle their self esteem? We tried again to dissuade the drastic haircut, talk sense, be reasonable —but it was to no avail.

I was suddenly bitter. I was mad at the girl who teased Jeannie moments before (or after?) inviting her to her birthday party. I was angry that my powerful daughter suddenly seemed small when standing in the shadow of judgment from a “friend”. I was mad for my ancestors, mad for my great-granddaughters. I was mad for reasons I didn’t even know. I was the tempest. I was fury. I was the flame. A wildfire on the edge of burning out of control

The autumn sun was setting quickly and the bonfire was beckoning. Dinner sat untouched on a table outside, getting cold. I acquiesced and, swallowing my growls, took the first snips of Jeannie’s wild, blue, cotton thin hair. It came out in chunks, then stood straight up on one side. Butchered. It looked ridiculous. “Great Goddess!” I sighed.

“Does it look bad?” Jeannie started to panic.

Maria backtracked, “I’ll just take a trim.”

I froze.

Claudia gave Sarah a cute asymmetric bob and tried to stop there. Sarah began to wail. “Cut it off. You have to cut it ALL off. It has to go! You promised!” Now armed with the new information about the “mean girl”, adding regret and more teasing by the kids at school into the mix was not in the rule book. Claudia and I were gazing into the future. We saw the tears when the reality of a pixie cut hit. We witnessed the awful grow back period. Nasty comments from the middle school populars clamored venomously in our imaginations.

The question begged to be answered—Were they trying to claim powerful individuality or maim themselves with drastic self-mutilation? Was it girl power or feigned indifference? Were they marking themselves as some sort of unspoken pact. Should we let them? Was this a rite of passage that we had no right to deny them? We exchanged desperate glances, trying to think on our feet. Desperate to save the vision. Desperate to save our girls.

Sarah collapsed further into heaving hysterical tears. We realized how deeply she needed to shear the pain. I had carelessly promised her the fire would heal her wounds. She wanted it all gone. Every drop, every memory, every strand. All of it. It was too heavy and having been promised relief from her burden, she was not about to spoil the chance. The words had been spoken, the spell cast, and she needed—no she demanded —that we follow through. What else could we do?

The sun was gone and darkness was everywhere. The fire alone did not emit enough glow for so careful an operation. Fate was now woven into each and every strand. A small hanging lantern cast just enough light for two girls placed side by side. We snipped in the dark. I pulled myself together to give Maria the less drastic cut she asked for. Claudia took over for me on Jeannie’s fiasco. She managed to forge artistic design where my anger had chopped recklessly. It looked spunky and cute. Nobody ended up with a pixie cut; however, they were all marked. The first part of the ritual was complete. They had bold and exciting new styles. They had victory. They were warriors.

When we gathered around the fire to begin the actual ceremony I spoke. I shared the wisdom that Claudia and I had agreed upon ahead of time when we thought we understood the purpose of this ritual. I talked and they listened. I told them why I got angry and somehow it was applied seamlessly into what we had hoped to share in the first place. Stand in your power. Stand in your truth. There is a fire within you, let it burn with the understanding that it can be both regenerative and destructive. Don’t be someone you aren’t to make someone else happy.

The ceremony goes from oldest to youngest and so I went first. I Introduced myself to the fire and asked for permission to approach. Offering tobacco, I asked for my prayers to be heard. I circled the fire clockwise and at the end of that cycle, I offered cornmeal to the fire. Cornmeal which offers sustenance. Cornmeal that kept my indigenous ancestors who knew this land, fed through winter’s promise of hunger and starvation. I made my reverence. I offered gratitude. Again I circled the fire clockwise and when I approached for the third time, I pulled out a pair of scissors and clipped from my short locks. I offered to the fire the healing of my body. I offered fear for the safety of my family. I offered the times when I could not find truth in my own voice. I offered the instability and worry about having a home and security. I released blocks that stopped me from writing, teaching and growing. With a single snip I offered to the fire these hindrances and in the alchemy, they transformed into hope, comfort, safety, inspiration, home and health. Claudia went next, then Maria, Sarah, Jeannie. Each one deliberately and consciously making their offering and their release, then stating with clear words what would grow back from the ashes. With Maria, I began to cry even though she kept her prayers to herself. With Sarah, we sighed heavily as her grief and fear were released to the flames. Jeannie’s was quick and private. Soft but hopeful. And then it was done. Or rather, then it began.

Maria went into the bathroom and within minutes was wailing for me. “It hurts so bad, mama!” She howled, “I feel so awful”.

“I cried with you,” I confessed, “I wasn’t sure what you were releasing but I felt it.”

Sobbing she confessed the layers of her release, revealing to me for the first time the emergence of a young woman from a child’s shell. The complexity of guilt for being grumpy or sometimes difficult. The sorrow or regret for choices made or not made. Life. Grief had been ripped out by its roots, leaving a cavity of raw emotion. Smoke meant to purify did nothing more than irritate the tender flesh and unleash scorched vulnerability. She sat on the toilet and cried until there was nothing left and then she came out and we ate the cold dinner. Then we packed it up hurriedly leaving dirty dishes by the fire. We were exhausted and just wanted to rest. I saw a tuft of Maria’s fallen hair on the floor and scooped it into the fire. I wasn’t about to risk the chance that one of her sorrows was left behind.

Then Jeannie began to cry, softly. “Is it awful mommy? Do I look ugly?” The truth is she looked like an adorable little elf. Claudia fixed her hair perfectly, and after a shower it didn’t even stick up. It was fine. It was better than fine. She was comforted easily and snuggled in next to me to sleep.

But Maria laid down and wept, full body grieving, heaving against my body, soaking my pajamas. “I wish I had never done it, Mama. I wish I never cut my hair. I just want my hair back.” After fifteen minutes of pure emotion, I pulled her to the mirror so she could see how cute her cut was and she said, “Oh, I like it.” Then she cried some more and said, “I guess I don’t know why I’m crying.”

But I knew.

As she fell asleep I saw darkness surrounding her. Slimy entities circling, trying to re-root into her soul space. Ancestral brambles trying to seduce their way back into the freshly sown soil. I called in the Goddesses, I called in the angels. I stood in the shadows, alert and on guard. I traced them back to their origin and burned the roots. I salted the earth so they could never re-emerge. I didn’t sleep for hours, fighting them off well into the night to heal my child, my healer.

It was better in the morning. They were silent but calm. Still, I remained shaken. Somewhere in the wee hours, it had started to rain. Since we had been in a drought for so long I expected the rain to pass quickly when I left to drive the girls to school. But it rained all day.

We had just moved to a place with an entirely new climate. It had been four decades since I lived in a place with real seasons. I didn’t have any rain gear. No boots. No umbrella. I didn’t have a waterproof coat. I only had one pair of long pants. I didn’t even remember to wear socks. I had signed up to join the girls on a school field trip. Although I was grateful to be able to spend the day with them, I was cold, so cold. The cold enveloped me, sucking me into fear as I stood in the rain with my feet wet, my not waterproof coat, and the silence. The silence continued all day. Silence where there was usually noise. Why were the girls so quiet today? Deep, contemplative soundlessness wrapped around the intensity of self reflection. Why weren’t they talking? They are always talking. There is never noiselessness. Congruently comforting and unsettling, I relaxed into it. I didn’t feel like filling the space with chatter. My own thoughts were driving me deep into the memories of the fire. It was the only place I could find warmth.

After school, I announced that we were going down the mountain. I wanted to fill the propane tanks that had been emptied for two days and two cold nights. It’s a long drive to do it and it was still raining. The streets were flooding. When the tanks were full I broke the silence again to inform them that I wanted to go to town. We kept driving until we got to the department store. At some point that day, I had surrendered to the realization that my coldness was easily remedied by purchasing proper footwear and a waterproof coat. I could reject the truth no more. I needed to provide myself warmth and safety.

The girls decided to stay in the car and I promised to hurry. I found the boots. My feet were cold and wet, so the decision to purchase them was easy enough. But a not waterproof coat was still a coat after all. I began to waffle on that part of the purchase. I pulled and rejected a few. I took them off the rack and then put them back on. I walked away twice. Finally, I went back and grabbed one off the shelf. A blue tailored all-weather coat by Ralph Lauren. A brand name even. I didn’t try it on, I just tossed it in the cart.

I began to cry. Oh fire, you bitter beast, lapping up my weaknesses with your flames.  You great bringer of truth. Unto you, I shed the instability, the insecurity, the fear. Transforming in your alchemy to comfort, a place to call home within and without, a hearth. And here you are calling my bluff. As I pushed my cart full of cozy warmth that I could actually afford to buy, I was awash with the memories of so many times when I could not, or would not. With shame, I recalled those times when a $60 jacket and $40 snow boots were out of reach. When buying them meant I would go without something else. When I existed in the illusion that the universe was limited and abundance was a gift for everyone but me. When I believed that all others’ needs should be met before mine, that I was last in line. Those illusions went up in flames in the darkness and were washed away with precious purifying rainwater.

I let the tears come. I didn’t call myself silly or stupid. I tried on the coat and modeled it in a public mirror at the end of an aisle—not tucked away in a dressing room. I looked amazing. And I was warm, so warm. Womb warm.

And then the rain stopped.