I stood over the steel-ringed fire pit and watched as photos, cards, and scraps of my journals turned into ash.
The peace was soft and subtle inside me as the words, memories, and emotions from my past seemed somehow resolved, wiped away.
The feeling was ephemeral at best, but I clutched onto it as long as I could before grabbing more paper pieces from the plastic zippered IKEA bag next to me to add to the flames.
A long stick, one I had found on the ground when I scouted this location, lay on the ground beside me as an assistant to the cremation, helping me shift the scattered pieces of my life and keep the flames going.
A number of things happened in my life that led to this moment, this fire.
Why?
Slowly and consistently, I saw that the only one who cared about the details of my life—my photos, cards, journals—was me.
For years, I collected cards from friends and family, treasured mementos and trinkets of my little adventures, and wrote in over 40 journals. They were all kept in a large black metal steamer trunk. The collection continued to grow—evidence of my life—as if its weight somehow would prove my life was relevant, important even.
Sadly, to anyone else, it is just stuff. Without the personal life experiences, it is a lot of paper and not much else.
So what do I do with these remnants of my life?
Some memories were sad and others..complicated. A few smiles but even more tears. Worse than reminders, they had become burdens to me.
With my counselor/therapist, I talked about my debate on what to do with my steamer trunk full of memories. I mentioned going through it all and photographing what I wanted to keep digitally.
She asked me if I could just get rid of them, asking “Do you have to go through them and subject yourself to your past like that?”
Yes was my answer. I wanted to meet me again, the younger me, the foolish me, the resilient me, the one who did all those things and met all those people. I missed her and I feared her at the same time because she embarrassed me and filled me with pride.
Cremation
I had decided to save some things digitally. Then, I cremated everything.
Please note the word cremation, specifically refers to the burning of a human body as part of burial. Most references to burning items as a way of releasing negative emotions, past experiences, or unwanted attachments is called a “burning ceremony,” not cremation.
But I wasn’t burning a couple of items or even a few letters—I was burning years of history. Also, this wasn’t about negative emotions and experiences—although there are some of those—it is about my past, a previous version of me. So I chose to use the term cremation. Instead of an actual body, it is a body of work, a curated collection of who I was and what I experienced.
When people ask why I didn’t just throw it in the garbage or recycle the paper, I respond, “Because my life is not garbage, and it deserves to be honored.”
When people ask why I didn’t just throw it in the garbage or recycle the paper, I respond, “Because my life is not garbage, and it deserves to be honored.” The evidence of my life doesn’t belong in a landfill. It shouldn’t be recycled or up-cycled as strips of paper for a paper-mache project or as a lining for a bird cage.
The evidence of my life doesn’t belong in a landfill. It shouldn’t be recycled or up-cycled as strips of paper for a paper-mache project or as a lining for a bird cage.
I went by myself every time because the only person who should celebrate and mourn the details of my life is me. Others may pay attention to my general existence, but the details are of no relevance to them.
Therefore, I was the only person in attendance. The only one needed to complete the job, to stand as witness to the fire consuming each piece, burning the tips of my fingers, and coating the bottom of a fire pit with gray ash.
Fire pits
With an entire steamer trunk of life artifacts, it is no surprise that it took me several trips. Each time, I would take a few journals, along with some photos and cards, to a fire pit to burn them.
I was very careful to choose fire pits with heavy metal rims and water nearby. Forest fires are a real concern, and I didn’t want anything I did to negatively impact the environment or community.
Having been raised in a home with a wood stove for heat, I was familiar with starting, keeping, and putting out (completely) a fire.
While I tended the fires, I would take a few minutes to appreciate the beauty around me. The fire pits I chose were at parks and campsites. Each one was beautiful in its own way.
Responses
Occasionally, people would walk by depending on the day. Frequent calls of, “Burn baby burn!” And “Serves him right!” And “He doesn’t deserve you” were called out in my direction.
“F@ck him!” I laughed and responded, “Well, that is not what I’m doing, but thanks for the support.”
Most people expected me to be a woman burning things due to a nasty breakup because almost all of the responses revolved around this theme.
Only one person suggested I was making breakfast and wanted to join in.
Another comment was simple and practical, “Keeping warm?”
Someone shouted from my right, “Bad book, huh?” I laughed and responded, “Yes, bad book. A number of bad books!”
“I hope that is just a fire.” The words seemed caring, as if they were hoping that, for my sake, it wasn’t indicative of anything sad.
The most interesting interaction was a man who tried to get me to stop. He insisted that I was polluting the environment, stating that the fire marshal will fine me heavily. I just looked at him and calmly replied that if that is true, I will pay the fine. Seeing that his tactics—he used several more—were not dissuading me, he wandered away.
With each experience, I appreciated most of the responses. Hearing what people thought and experiencing their curiosity and occasional efforts to support me was interesting.
Saying goodbye
Burning these pages, instead of just shredding them, recycling them, or throwing them away, was a release, a letting go.
These were things that served me in the past. Journals enabled me to get feelings out and put them on the page, to express what I was going through and try and figure out this thing called life.
I went through a lot of experiences, and I wrote, photographed, and memorialized so many of them. They are still a part of me. Those experiences informed the decisions I have made and who I am.
Standing and staring into the flames, I recognized, mourned, and celebrated who I was, honoring my past—a bittersweet and sincere goodbye.
I recognize these pieces are evidence of the past and helped shape who I am now, but it is not all that I am and not who I am going to be. It’s time to move on.▫️