This is the third in a series on how visiting the elements on this beautiful planet can help us respond to these tumultuous times. The last post explored Air; today we’ll be visiting Fire in celebration of the Solstice.
Musing on the element of Fire in celebration of the Solstice . . .
Fire illuminates, warms, burns, destroys and gives life. Fire in the heavens is inspirational and compelling. In our human experience, the element of Fire originates in the sunlight that drives the greening of our planet through photosynthesis. It is the sun that warms us and the stars that guide us to the outer reaches of our imagination.
Perhaps humanity's earliest technological advance was the ability to harness the power of Fire. Stealing the element of Fire for the benefit of humanity is a narrative found across cultures, from Prometheus in Greek mythology to Māui in Polynesian stories. In Cherokee myth, Grandmother Spider snuck into the land of Light and took some Fire away in her net. Coyote, Beaver, Dog, Rabbit, Crow, and Possum are all credited with stealing Fire and bringing it to humans. All of these stories hold a deep respect for the power of Fire: there is heroic sacrifice and divine punishment. In each, the transformative power of Fire advances human progress and brings unintended consequences.
The forge is one of the earliest technologies for capturing Fire. When we make use of metal, we are benefiting from the captured Fire in the forge. We learned to temper and form bronze using Fire. Warriors have made use of Fire to create the sword, the dagger, and the shield. In this century, we have advanced to developing explosive firepower in nuclear technology. Along with its power has come the release of radioactive materials, for which we still don’t have a good solution. As the stories that have come down through the ages have shown us, Man is compelled by the power of Fire. He plays with Fire at his great benefit and his peril.
In the feminine narratives, women tend Fires. Whenever we cook or warm our homes we are working with the Fire that was stolen for us, captured for our benefit. Hestia is the powerful and now lesser-known Goddess of the Hearth in Greek and Roman mythology. The hearth is a fundamental placeholder for the Fire that benefits humanity. Before we invented Fire starters, we had to keep the Fire burning so as not to lose the magical power of this element. The hearth is a warm and inviting place that is the sacred center of the Home and Temple in many traditions. A place where what we value and care about is kept burning.
Fire helps us stay true to our vision and purpose through its magnetic quality in the heart of our homes and the warmth in our beings. The affirming warmth and support of home. The Fire in our belly. Fire assists us with developing vision and purpose through the inspiration of light in the heavens. The stars help us to stay on course. Fire in the heavens inspires us to reach beyond our small selves. Illuminating the vast possibility that is beyond Earth's atmosphere and our imaginations.
It is no wonder that in our achievement-oriented culture, we privilege this element above all.
Fire Practices
Create a hearth fire in your backyard and invite people to gather around it. Notice what happens in the space around the Fire. Consider the lineage of humans to which you belong who have been gathering around Fires in this way for millennia.
Show up for the moment that the sun rises and or sets during the solstice. What occurs in that moment inside you and around you? Consider that human architects have been orienting around this moment in time cross-culturally for millennia. Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, Hovenweep . . .
"Barn's burned down,
Now I can see the moon."
Masahide
And as Masahide (often attributed to Basho) alludes to in his famous poem. Think of a time when your barn burned down – when Fire was a destructive force in your life, either actually or metaphorically. What rose up from those ashes? What possibilities emerged? In what way did you see the moon?
How the Light Comes
by Jan Richardson
I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden
what is lost
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
That it has a fondness
for the body
for finding its way
toward flesh
for tracing the edges
of form
for shining forth
through the eye,
the hand,
the heart.
I cannot tell you
how the light comes,
but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way
into the deepest dark
that enfolds you,
though it may seem
long ages in coming
or arrive in a shape
you did not foresee.
And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it.
May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies
to follow the arc it makes.
May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.
See the rest of the four-part series here . . .