The Psychic Incinerator by Heidi D.
Adapted from an oral tale told by Ivy L.
New Year’s Day is when we ignite our own spiritual rebirth. Becoming resolute in our conviction for change requires thoughtful introspection. There is nothing like a moment of honest self-loathing to convince yourself that you need some REAL renewal. Look at yourself naked, get on the scales, check your calendar and count how many meaningful engagements you had that weren’t doctor visits, count how many articles of clothing you are holding onto waiting for the perfect engagement or the perfect weight, check the expiration dates of foods and medicines.
I’m prone to look at every day as the point for launching into the “better version of myself.” Summer is the time to discard the stuff I like to call “psychic burden.” I had a big painful purging of stuff this past summer. I called the event “Round One.” Rounds two and three will require more courage and resignation. Some of those old objects were tied up with hopes I was reluctantly giving up on. I discarded things as I was emotionally able, cutting my losses in hopes of not losing another thing, but instead gaining. It was at once liberating and sad.
It really was just Round One. I have many stinking psychic trash bags needing to be . . .
Here’s an interesting fact: the number of presents given in the Christmas carol “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is 364. The song is exactly one gift short of having a present for every day of the year. Now if you’re thinking that the one day without out a gift is Christmas Day then you might believe that the last and ultimate gift was given by God, in the form of his son, our Savior. If you’re thinking the one day without a gift is New Year’s Day, then you understand that this day, mystically measured by numbers and the heavens, gives us the gift to ignite our own spiritual rebirth.
In Marysville rebirth happens in a sacred space outside of town reverently referred to as Ash Field. Here the residents come on New Year’s Eve with objects that conjure some form of emotional distress.
It’s usually the old men who arrive first; they start the fire with dead wood pruned from their trees. Then others come with worn out box springs and mattresses, chairs that can no longer be trusted to support or comfort, old doors, and broken window frames.
It sounds like an ordinary bon fire, but then I haven’t mentioned Alastair. Mr. Alastair McGee, like a wizard in plaid, sanctifies the blaze with eerie notes squeezed from his bag pipes. He is the most militant artist I have ever seen. Marching like a victorious hero back from battle, he rouses in the congregants a super natural confidence. “Come liberate yourself from the shackles of the past! Shine an angry face towards the Future so It’ll FEAR to do ye harm.” Al brings an upholstered wing backed chair, it’s not for burning; it’s for resting his pipes and resting his arse. Sitting on a decorative side table is a heavy glass and a bottle of Scotch whisky. His wire-haired hound roams in and out of the shadows.
The fire is holy, and no one dares come to see it unless he comes to feed it. For if you come as an observer your sure to have double trouble in the next year.
One year Jenette Wilkes threw her wedding ring into the blaze after twenty eight years of marriage to a lying drunk. She got into her car, left town, and wasn’t seen again. James Newell burned all the love songs he wrote about his first girlfriend. Tom, principal of the local high school came and burned the only photograph he had of his father. He was told his father had died when he was an infant, but when his mother passed an aunt told Tom that his father was living happily fifty miles away a husband of thirty five years, the father of three, with eight grandchildren. He never wanted anything to do with Tom. Eddie the Bum came and burned his needles, liquor and cigarettes. On January 2nd he checked into rehab. When he was seen six months later no one recognize him. The dark shades of addiction were lifting off him like an old sticky finish on a table, revealing some unimaginable beauty beneath.
They come with letters, photographs, clothes, furniture, journals, homemade gifts, and jewelry. The objects were once sentimental mementoes of joyful times, but they were transformed into painful reminders of some lost hope, broken promise, or unfulfilled dream.
Some participants come loudly, proclaiming judgment. They condemn the object, they condemn the pain it represents, and they throw it in the fire cheering its destruction begging others to join in the celebration. Others come quietly, solemnly. Without a word they cast the lifeless bit of matter into the great psychic incinerator.
No one is there to stop you from expunging the hurt from your life. No one casts judgment on the sentence you hand down. Al never blinked when Greg Howard threw away his golf clubs. However, the year Amber came to resurrect her life from the hurt of a two-timing boyfriend a precedent was set. Amber came to proclaim. Her voice boomed an invitation the world to participate in her boyfriend cleansing ritual. “HERE are the movie ticket stubs from our first date! Here are the letters you wrote me when I was working at the camp, here’s the cork from the wine we drank in the park, HERE’s the STONE I saved from that night on the beach, HERE’s the cashmere sweater you gave me, here are the keys to your CAR and HOUSE, HERE are the pictures we took at the mall after you said you loved me! And here are the NUDIE PICTURES we took!” Just before hurling the photos Amber took a glance at the top photograph and saw her seductive self. “Damn I’m hot! Right?” She showed the photo to Al who smiled devilishly and nodded in agreement, “He’s a fool!” Amber sorted her photos out of the pile. She thought the world needed a record of her tempting beauty. Then she defiantly yelled, “I’m burning your pictures A******! You need Enzyte!” The screaming, chucking, and burning continued for ten more minutes. Every object was thrown violently into the flames. Amber seemed to have things under control.
Al sat nearby resting his pipes, providing no audible interference. “HERE’s the ****ing ring you gave me, and HERE are the g****mn Beanies Babies you gave me. “ Breaking all rules written and unwritten, Al with the speed of an angel dove and intercepted the box of babies rescuing them from the flames. Ah but the scales of justice had to be balanced! Al tumbled to the ground and Amber was freed from her hurt when she saw the Freed Willy under Al’s skirt. Al wasn’t shamed, but he couldn’t have looked more shaken if he had rescued a child from being struck by a car. Amber fell into laughter! When she recovered from the side stitches her soul was remedied. She gave Al a big kiss and hug, and skipped away smiling. Later, Al got an even bigger kiss from Mrs. McGee, a Beanie Baby collector.
While most offerings to the fire are of a physical nature some drunks come baring their souls about lost love and other regrets too horrible to repeat. They stare into the flames and confess like it’s their last day on earth. It’s easy recognize the type when you see them. They look near dead, like they’ve returned from a long walk through Hell. The wise person won’t stand in ear shot, unless they want to tremble with fear for the rest of their lives. Some stories witness to scars so deep that even the blue flames from the New Year’s Eve bonfire can’t make them less noticeable.
Gratefully, most folks are healed by the New Year’s Eve bon fire ritual.
No one knows exactly when the first fire was lit, or when the spring ritual related to the fire began. When the ground dries the serious gardeners come to Ash Field with buckets and shovels to collect ashes from the New Year’s Eve bon fire. The ashes are spread over their garden beds; feeding flowers that always become the strongest and prettiest. The winds do the rest of the work blowing the ashes across the countryside and into the neighborhoods. The energetic rains flush the ashes into the ground and then in June, like a miracle from the hand of God himself, lupines bloom in shades of tickled pink , cotton candy, true blue, heavenly blue, and variations of purple spanning from the moment just after sunset to the dark colored robes of Persian princes. When I see the spires of flowers dancing on the breezes like girls in fancy prom dresses, I am reminded that the growth of something beautiful is possible even after painful destruction.
Good Riddance 2010! Let the good begin!
