Ashes: Celebrating Fire Communion

A few months ago I gathered around a fire with a few friends for a new moon burn - a time of ritualized letting go that aligned with the renewal of the moon itself.

We circled around a simple fire in the backyard. Each person with a different sized pile of items to release into the flames.

Mine were letters - from a past chapter and version of myself. Letters and even a thin journal of notes penned by the same hand. It was time to let go - actually, it had been time for a while.

But like many life chapters that carry weight - we can unwittingly cling to pieces of the past - a part of us afraid to let go, completely, fully…so used to these old stories.

Somehow taking comfort in what is familiar - even if it’s not good for us

It's said by some that the Phoenix’s Burning Day comes once every 500 years, by others once in a generation and still by others - at the end of each and every cycle in life.

A cycle not just in the life of the collective, but within one’s own life.

The ending of a chapter
a relationship
a job.

The ending of old, old stories about yourself. Stories that -
you’re not good enough
your life isn’t as exquisitely important as everyone else’s
your voice doesn’t matter.

Or, perhaps old, old stories that once served you but do so no longer
stories encouraging you to hide your gifts
to blend in
to not speak truth to power.

As we close this decade, we have a moment to let go of something a little deeper than every other year.

And the phoenix is weighed down by a heavy load.

What old stories are holding you back from rebirth? From singing your song?

The Phoenix appears across ancient cultures and mythologies. Today’s story was inspired by ancient Egypt and the fire bird associated with the god of the sun, Re. In the classical version of this tale, the dying phoenix places within the nest of aromatic spices an egg of myrrh - in the form of sticky resin. The resin is then used to embalm the ashes, which the reborn Phoenix carries back to the city of the Sun, depositing the ashes on the altar in the temple of Re.

This final part of the story revealing a place of importance for the ashes themselves. As the god of the sun, Re, was seen as responsible for the creation of all life. The ashes, then, intimately…essentially, connected to new life.

The completeness, totalness of the death of the Phoenix - a necessary bridge to new life.

Back at the new moon burn ritual around a fire a few months ago, after tossing the letters and the thin journal into the fire, I watched them burn. I watched them breakdown into smaller and different parts. And it wasn’t just my stuff - it was everyone’s stuff — one person even brought a jean jacket that needed to be let go of, completely. And all of it - all of it! - eventually turned to ash.

And the wood ash in this case, eventually being lightly scattered throughout the garden and into the compost pile - an excellent source of lime and potassium.

The ashes offering themselves to new life, and the cycle continuing. Nothing wasted, nothing without value.

And it’s not that letting go completely means this part of your life or your story somehow disappears.

We are marked by the ashes, we are shaped, imprinted by what has been.

But we can be free from its grip
making room for new life.

Jan Richardson in her poem “Blessing the Dust”" says it best:

Blessing the Dust
by Jan Richardson

All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners

or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—

did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?

This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.

This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.

This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.

So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
And let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked
not for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are

but for claiming
what Life can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made
and the stars that blaze
in our bones
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.

We all have these old stories about our selves or our lives that we have been holding onto for too long.

As we turn toward our Fire Communion ritual, I’d like to invite us all to take a few moments just to listen. Pay attention to our bodies, and to our lived-in experiences.

What old stories are you ready to let go of?

What feeling is there? And what else?

Those stories that would make it really hard for you to move forward on the journey you’d like to take in this new year - in this new decade.

A story that needs to finally be let go of - completely.

There are baskets under the chairs in the center aisle - with pencils and something called flash paper. It’s specially treated paper that evaporates in fire. For the purpose of our ritual, we’ll carry the symbol of the ashes with us as the paper itself disappears.

I'm going to ask the person in the center aisle to get the basket and take a piece of the paper and a pencil, and then pass it on to the person next to you, until everyone in your row has one.

Once you have some clarity, write a word or phrase of this old story onto the paper. Nobody will see it except you, the flame, and the Universe.

Maybe it’s:
I am not enough.
or
Shame
I am not as good as ______fill in the blank with the person or people you’ve been comparing yourself to — for too long.
or
I don’t deserve to be forgiven
or
I don’t have worth unless I accomplish xyz.

What story is finally ready to be released into the flames.
We will offer you a few minutes for reflection.

Listen to your heart, the longing that is there. However strange it may seem now, trust what arises without too much analyzing.

Honor it, even as you seek to let go of the thing that is no longer serving the path you want to take.

In a moment I’ll offer you instructions about the ritual.