Why I Want to Dance Around a Bonfire on Beltane
I had kept the box of letters in a shoebox for nearly three years at this point. They no longer brought me joy to read, nor did I find comfort in knowing they were nearby. We had written to each other almost everyday without fail for the weeks he was in boot camp, and I had always said that I would compile the letters into inspiration for a book about our romance. We both agreed ours was the kind of story worth telling.
And then, a couple years later, that story had changed into one much different than it had started as, and I was ready for the cyclical story of heartbreak and betrayal to no longer be mine. It just so happened that this feeling began to surface on Beltane.
Beltane is the point between the Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice, when the earth becomes rich and ripe and pungent with the burst of full bloom. Giant bonfires were lit during ancient Beltane rituals, encouraging the participants to dance around it, throw things in it, and spiritually lighten their load by making sacrifices to the flames.
Naturally, I wanted to light something on fire. The time had come for svaha – offering it up to the divine fire so that I could make room for a new story to begin in my life.
I put my old pot roast pan on the back porch when I got home from teaching that night, filling in my roommate with my plan while I went to the freezer to retrieve a long abandoned bottle of Bacardi 151. I wasn’t messing around.
I pulled out all the letters from their envelopes and unfolded them. There were probably about one hundred pages of handwritten notes, song lyrics and doodles and not once did I stop to take one last peek at the words that I had once known by heart. Somewhere in the back of my head, this startled me and I realized I had just assumed this would be hard. I thought this story was such a part of my life that I would have to fight to release it. But it became very clear to me at that moment that I was already living a new story.
Armed with a box of matches and the bottle of flammable liquor, I marched outside to begin. The letters were heaping over the top of the pot roast pan and my roommate sat off to the side with a fully loaded SuperSoaker, just to keep things in check. I drizzled the 151 over the top of the pages and lit the first match, jumping back as blossomed with a whoosh into a blue flame. I threw another match, and another, until all the pages were glowing with fire. I danced around the makeshift fire pit, spinning in circles and feeling just as warm on the inside with a sense of release.
This was more than just a heart-broken teenager lighting an ex-boyfriend’s photograph on fire after a break-up; this was radical recognition that I was free of stories I had been telling myself for three years. Stories that I wasn’t good enough. That I would never be able to trust anyone again. That without him, I couldn’t be strong. That he owed me. That he was my inspiration. That I would never find anyone else.
The fire simmered out and I peered into the ashes at the barely distinguishable pages and giggled. I poked at the charred bits, only to discover that there was still another layer of perfectly unscathed pages beneath. I cursed. And I lit it on fire again.
This time, I used more 151. The blue flames leapt and flickered and I whooped and hollered. “Almost fooled me, didn’t you?” I shouted, drunk with the increasing freedom. “No more! I’m telling you, no more! I’m completely letting go this time.” I danced some more while the roommate shot little victory shots of water up into the air.
The flames died again. I knelt down. I poked and prodded, only to discover another layer of perfectly preserved pages.
The bottle of 151 had been well over three-fourths of the way full when I pulled it out of the freezer, and now I poured the last third into the dish. The papers were dowsed in the ignitable stuff and pooled in the corners of the pan. I threw in five lit matches, all at once, and barely came away with my eyebrows still intact. I resumed my dancing and hollering, although it was now interlaced with muttered curses about how of course there’s always another layer with him. Of course it’s never just been that easy to step away from someone I wanted so badly to love, and to love me back simply.
Fire died. I knelt. I cursed. I pushed unscathed bits back into corners where there were still glowing embers, frantically trying to get rid of every last handwritten word.
“Why won’t you let me go?” I asked the pages. “Why is it always like this with you? Why can’t I just be done with you and why won’t you let me? We haven’t even spoken in months and I want to be done.”
The roommate put down the glass of wine she had been sipping and laid the watergun across her lap. I was blowing on the embers, hoping for just one more drop of 151 that hadn’t been burned away yet, when she said quite possibly the most powerful, philosophical and inspirational thing she ever said to me.
“You know, Potter, it’s okay if there is still a little bit left. He’s been in your heart for a long time and he may never be completely gone. And that’s alright.” She slowly pulled her fixed gaze away from the smoldering pot roast pan and leaned back over the edge of the lawn chair for her wine glass, while the top foot of her crossed legs resumed wagging from side to side. I stared at her like she was an oracle that had appeared out of thin air to speak to me. A smile crept across my face, a movement of unexpected relief.
I slept well that night, finally unchained from the ghosts of a story I had once written for myself. I felt magical, as if I had finally granted myself permission to be independently powerful. Hadn’t I?
I knew the portals of Beltane were sacred and magical, but I had no idea just how true that was. Not only had I been granted the freedom and power of my own voice through my sacred fire, I was also given the chance to test my new boundaries. The next morning, after months of not speaking, he called me out of the blue from overseas.
Without mentioning one word about burning the letters, I told him exactly how I felt and stood firm on my decision to be released from the cycle of heartbreak and second (third, fourth, fifth) chances. After all, I didn’t burn the letters to be dramatic or to make a point or to hurt his feelings. I did it for me, and I did it with a deep symbolism that meant more to me than those letters ever could have hoped.