Essential Fires

I take the match and let it roll over between my fingers—the slender wood cylinder coming to rest every few seconds. Taking my time, I notice how its tip isn’t as red as I had imagined. It’s muted, like a weather-worn brick. A lighter would be too casual, too easy. This blaze will take the life of some but save the life of others. This fire is essential.

I twist my feet in place, digging in. The right foundation is everything. If not properly constructed the air won’t circulate, or the timber will simply fall over, or worst of all it will flicker and provide light for moment before burning out too quickly. I’ve got to take my time. This fire is essential.

What am I missing? Oh, yes, kindling. I know most people like to start with finding their timber first, but I do not favor this approach. Absent the right material to ensure a quality start, the highest-grade of timber won’t ignite properly. I begin gathering it in my hands: PowerPoint slides filled with data that tells the story of fires past, phrases broken and bundled together that tell the stories of those consumed by the flames long gone. I tie these together, ensuring the tension is just right. This fire is essential.

Now, it’s time for the timber. Not just anything will do. Pine that isn’t personal would start easiest but burn out too quickly. Only one thing will do, because this fire is essential. I take the Oak of my own experience and position my body squarely in the middle.

It’s time for the finishing touch. I let the kerosene of my own tears run down my cheeks, over my chest, and down both legs until my ankles are completely saturated. When the time is just right, I quickly swipe the match and let it fall to my feet. Everything in me wants to leap from this place, but this fire is essential.

Those who have never been in the fire themselves or pulled a body from a blaze gather around, mystified by the flames’ beauty, never fully considering what it took to create them. Those who have look away or wonder what they can grab to douse the inferno. But I am unmoved. I must stay here until there is nothing but ash. I must stay until they are more concerned with my safety than their personal warmth and entertainment. I must stay until they are willing to place themselves in the fire to pull me from it. I must stay until they commit to ensuring there are no more fires. This fire is essential.

If I leave the blaze before my work is done, they will leave and return to the work of building little fires in their schools and sacrificing students on the altar of proficiency. It’s no wonder why families, after years of constantly fighting against their own being used as fodder for fire, become exhausted.

When it’s all over, they will gather around and sweep my remnants into moleskins, some marking the magic of seeing a fire up close, others pledging to never build fires again.

This fire is essential.