The 4th of July weekend found me taking
care of outdoor chores around the house: painting the part near the roof I
totally forgot to cover last summer, trimming overgrown trees, weeding the
garden. And the biggest task-cleaning the garage, that necessary catch-all,
filled with empty cartons you plan to use some day to mail holiday gifts to
faraway loved ones, shelves of seasonal décor in wild array precariously
balanced among empty mason jars for canning, and bins and bins of stuff and
things. All of it amid sawdust and spider webs. It made me realize how
sentimental I can get. Keeping things I don’t need or even like, merely because
of who gave them to me or where I got them in the first place. It was time to
get ruthless. And I did. I made a pile to give to Goodwill and an even bigger
pile to recycle and toss.
Then I came upon the bin with my old tax returns.
Remembering how my accountant advised keeping them for seven years, I happily
realized I could eliminate this bin altogether because it held returns starting
in 1997. The thought of spending that much time placing them page by page
through my little home shredder daunted me. So I decided to burn them.
Out came the big cast iron cauldron I use for
seasonal Sabbat celebrations in my back yard. I soaked the lawn surrounding it
with the hose on this hot, dry day and using some of the small, brittle
branches from this mornings’ butterfly bush trim, I ignited a flame. Pulling up
a lawn chair I began to feed the fire. Worksheets, copies, records of
expenditures, ‘97, ‘98, ‘99. Notes from my accountant about the difference
between a SEP and a SIMPLE, mileage, write off categories 2000, ‘01, ‘02. Check
book registers, reminders of supplies bought for this conference, that
workshop, the other ceremony, ‘03, ‘04, ‘05. Gaia’s Temple 1099’s, two year comparisons,
envelopes of receipts, ‘06. Flames
flared, smoke billowed. I watched as the cauldron filled with ashes, witnessing
the great transformation that only fire brings.
Oh, if only I could burn away my past mistakes this
easily. The harsh words. The unkind actions. The unconscious gestures of
overblown ego that caused rifts in cherished friendships. The misunderstandings
that resulted in painful loss. Oh, if only the fire could take my blunders and
faults, consume my regret and shame and sorrow, and transform them into
something useful, like these ashes that will be added to my compost pile. If
only I could be similarly transformed so that I could accept the error of my ways
and forgive myself.
Before long, years of financial detail had become
nothing more than ash. I sat there watching the smoke rise and the fire die
down for a while and it occurred to me that perhaps, in some parallel way, I
had burned away some of those old mistakes. My heart and soul have been slowly
composting them and, like these ashes that will amend my soil and keep the
slugs off my zucchini and lettuce, those past mistakes are serving to support
my growth now. I feel wiser for sure, more patient, less angry. I feel I have
nothing more to prove and that takes the bite out of my words and the sting out
of my actions these days.
By late afternoon, when the cauldron had
sufficiently cooled so I could return it to its place in my beautifully cleaned
and organized garage, I felt free. Granted, it doesn't reach the magnitude stated in the
Declaration of Independence, but in my own small way, my personal fireworks let
freedom ring.