Out of the Ashes

on grief, setting fires, and art as an avenue for healing

“It was a pleasure to burn.” That’s what I think as I stand over those 25-year old letters watching them burn. That iconic line is how Ray Bradbury opens his seminal novel, Fahrenheit 451, and I’m envious of the genius of those five words.

Watching the pages curl in the orange flames, I tip my chin to Bradbury, a quiet nod of gratitude for giving me the words for this moment. It was a pleasure to burn.

Months ago I’d realized that I needed the cathartic act of burning some old letters—words that have overstayed their welcome. Last week I heard Beth Moore on a recent podcast¹, say that her daughters know exactly which of her journals to burn when the time comes. I laughed out loud when she said it, but then I made a short list of who to task with this when the time comes for my own journals to be burned. Some writing belongs in the fire even as it’s being scratched into the page. And it’s not a waste to write it anyway, knowing that it will be a pleasure to burn it later.

When I made the decision to burn the papers, I knew I wanted to make paint out of the ashes. The symbolism of using those old words, those old wounds, as a foundation for making something beautiful hits home, especially in this season of Lent that began with the imposition of ashes.

I recently interviewed a friend for an upcoming episode of Refine{d} the podcast, and we were discussing the unpredictability of grief. How it shows up when you thought you had dealt with this or that memory, or how it sneaks up on you at weird times, like while you’re buying deli meat, having a room in your house painted, or pumping your gas. It’s a wild animal, I’d said to her. It’s unpredictable, and in many ways, untamable. You don’t get over it, you learn to live with it or it will eat you. You learn to let it live with you or it will eat you. Sometimes, you might even break bread with it, chat with it, let it sleep close to you even though you’re afraid of being hurt by it, again. You understand that pretending it doesn't exist is no real way of living.

You acknowledge each other and this is how the truce is formed.

I don’t believe that burning the pages magically erases the past. I am not trying to eradicate the history. I am trying to build something new. To use my two hands to make beauty out of things that were not beautiful. Our work as a writers and artists is to work with the materials we’ve been given. We get to transform the stuff of life into something else—regardless of whatever it once was. In this way, we get to participate in the act of redemption. We get to “make new” even as we are being made new.

I gather the ashes into a jar and set them on my art table. They are lumpy and not grown down but I leave them as they are. Accepting the imperfections are part of the process.

I mix the ash with some painting medium and begin layering old grief onto a new canvas and letting myself forget the words that the fire burned away.

I layer gold paint and a few swipes of other colors on top of the ash. Go slow, I remind myself. Let the process be the purpose.

I clip words from books and puzzle together a fragment of a thought. A found poem. A memory of events according to the Truth.

"Once upon a time there was a narrow tightrope

of interlocking questions

Everything seemed shaped by

The roots of

affairs they were able to ignore

don’t make waves, they said,

But I did.”

~Kris Camealy 3/6/23

Next week I will be away at Refine.² If you think of us gathered there, in the Holy hush of that retreat space, pray for us? I know it will be a special weekend--it always is, but it's not always an easy weekend. When it's hard, it's hard in the best kind of ways. The way transformation is hard. The way healing is hard. The way grief is hard. The way telling the truth is hard. The way hearing the truth is hard.

You know what I mean.

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This & That

My friend Joy Ike recently shared some words of wisdom I haven’t forgotten yet.

I just finished listening to this book and it is a masterclass in memoir writing.

This is now my favorite place to work.

My favorite Placemaker has something new for the rest of us and I can not wait.

We pulled this out of the freezer and thanked our December selves for thinking of us in March.

My friend Linda keeps an “evidence” bag of moments of God’s faithfulness. I keep every single one of these, and have been for the last 9 years.

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