Flares

© Diego Vito Cervo | Dreamstime.com

Explosion.
Blow-up.
Outburst.
Anger.
Where does it come from?
Where does it go?

Seems like those thankfully-rare flares are so much more than related to the one incident.
Not a single match by itself, oh no, they are the spark that flies into the open and full matchbox or into the pile of twigs with dry tinder holding their breath for that 'inciting incident'* that is the fire that flies off the handle once sparked.
Weird how that happens...

Swallowing down unlit matches--not as brave as those who swallow lit torches at a carnival--one at a time, here and there, until they are all gummed together with the gasoline of stomach acids in the subtle body and--WHOOSH!--up goes the fire, the conflagration that overwhelms and scalds and burns so fast.
Flaring up before one can even stop it, consuming and exhausting in an instant. The slow burn at the beginning that smolders beneath the wet leaves in a loving aversion to confrontation.

What good is that when the burn becomes the forest fire scorching or destroying everything it is path? Ugh.

And then comes the remorse, the awareness and shame that shimmers in its own orange bowl of bubbling brew fit only for pouring out where it poisons the ground beneath it. Not fit for consumption, yet sometimes we do--we take it in and bury it deep in our tissues. Nasty stuff, congealing in its own thickening lard after all that heat. Yuck.

Even now, though, it can be released safely because warmth can bring healing as well, the gentle warmth of a candle glowing within a heart of forgiveness in a house with many windows thrown open to bring in fresh air of new beginnings. Gentle simmering melts the shame. Or compassionate waters, salty and purifying, can pour into the bowl mingling with the thick oil, thinning it, further, more and more until it can flow easily into a non-harmful juice to be transformed.

Yet perhaps important to taste the orange goo of anger's residue before pouring it out or transforming it. Don't ignore it just because it's ugly and smells like rotten eggs or month-old garbage left out in the summer sun. Take a good look, even admire the color if you can for what it represents, for what was behind it, for what it brought to light--that golden light of the healing heart that can transform all into love. Inhale deeply of the burnt flesh, decaying, until it makes us gag so we don't forget it. I still recall a phrase from an old TV series: "stop and smell the burning flesh of sinners" (can't remember the context or the show but the phrase stuck). Grotesque? But if I don't stop and smell of my angered ego's charred flesh, how can I make changes? How can I make the salve that will heal? Without looking at the mess, how do I know where to place that lovely creamy salve?

To reflect upon the anger--no matter what other words I may use to try and disguise it or defend it--is to see, smell, taste, touch and eventually know Truth. And then, only then, can I continue to move more fully forward with compassion toward Self, and, therefore, toward others.
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* read that word combination inVicki's blog earlier this morning