Burning Down the House
As I write this my feet are resting on the piano seat that 7-year-old me used to sit on. If you pick up the lid of the seat you’ll find all of my old piano books. And if you rifle through them you’ll see an ancient sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook that my piano teacher wrote my homework on, my mother’s handwriting decorating the other side with notes to herself that I can’t decipher. Nearly 20 years have passed, several moves have taken place, new relationships have come and gone for my father, and still these very tangible memories are sitting here waiting to deliver a healthy dose of nostalgia.
Outside the window there is a perfect snow globe of fresh flakes falling from the sky, like Santa ordered it himself. Beneath the windows are photos of my nieces and nephews, wedding photos of important people in my dad and stepmom’s life, new babies who have since grown, family vacations, and school photos. I wonder what it was like for them to take my wedding photos down. Was it a conscious decision they made together? Was it one that bore little thought? Or did they reminisce about that day or my relationship? “It’s a shame it ended,” I imagine them saying. Or, “I knew it wouldn’t last from the start.” I wonder if they threw the photos out or simply left them in the frames, hiding behind different photos of other couples who haven’t met the same fate. Maybe they tucked them into a box, saving them for future nostalgia, or burned them in the fireplace, the flames eating the memories, the smoke carrying away what once was.
Inside the walls of this house are much gentler memories, far fewer secrets, and permission to not think about either. My dad brings me a bowl of venison chili, A Christmas Story plays on repeat in the background, and a new memory gets made, new traditions get written, ones that no longer include my mother, who chooses to not be in my life.
Three Christmases ago I got on a plane on December 22nd and left Chicago for good. I moved in a trance as I walked to the el and rode to ORD. I watched my memories from the prior 15 years replay as the blue line traversed the city neighborhoods. I got on the plane, sat in my middle seat, and immediately rested my forehead on the seat in front of me, tears making pathways down my face. The man next to me asked if I was all right. And all I could muster was a meak “no.” I couldn’t possibly explain all that I had left behind to this stranger beside me. When I got to Michigan for the holidays, I would open my eyes every morning, reliving my reality like Groundhog’s Day, a reality so foreign that I could barely bear to face the day. My sisters took me to one of my favorite breakfast spots and I saw them exchange a worried look when I couldn’t quit crying, tears dripping onto my eggs.
Last Christmas I cried in my car outside of Target after the simple act of picking out new ornaments proved to not be simple at all. But this year? Despite it ALL, I have not shed a single tear. I feel a little like Cameron Diaz in the movie The Holiday when she wills herself to cry after a breakup but can’t produce a single tear. Could it be that I am becoming less phased by pain? Less emotive in the face of rejection? More understanding and forgiving of expectations?
In Elizabeth Lesser’s book Broken Open she writes a lot about the concept of a phoenix rising. To rise like a phoenix from the ashes means to come back stronger than before. To grow in the face of adversity. To transform and transmute after hanging out in Hell. After witnessing the destruction and despair in the wake of this year’s wildfires near my house in California, I have thought a lot about the symbolism of burning down, burning up, catching fire, and standing in the flames. And then...rebuilding. While wildfires are devastating and damaging oftentimes beyond repair, wildfires also create a clearing for new life. Shade-intolerant plants receive sudden exposure to sunlight. Invasive diseases and insects get wiped out. Burned forest floor debris enriches the soil and creates a surge of nutrients that feed new growth. A new cycle begins. And while it’s impossible to grow back in the same way, it instead grows back anew, in the presence of strength and resilience and determination. Some parts grow back immediately. Other parts take years. And some stay scarred for life. There is no timeline or right way. It just happens as it happens.
A few years back I used to look in the mirror and see an unrecognizable face. An identity that I no longer knew. Now I look in the mirror and see a phoenix. I see a woman who has healed, who has risen from the ashes, who has grown in haphazard, nonlinear ways. And I love her fiercely. I recall being so sick of my pain that my skin felt itchy. I was so tired of being tired and so exhausted by all of the tears. But one day they quit forming and I can’t remember when that happened. One day the tender spots that used to bring me to my knees no longer punctured me. My friend Sarah told me it would happen: One day I would wake up and no longer be surprised. And one day this will all happen again. Life will throw me a curve ball. A plot twist. A new plan. I will break, I will fall, I will burn to ashes. I will take a photo of those moments and frame them in my mind. I will sweep up the nutrients that help me grow again. And I will bow to the cycles that make me who I am.
