Ignition When the Fire Knows Your Name.

Ignition

When the Fire Knows Your Name

Written by Kateb Shunnar

Fire does not knock. It does not clear its throat. It does not wait for you to get comfortable or get dressed or get your thoughts together. Fire shows up when heat and fuel and oxygen decide to dance together, and once they lock arms, something is going to change. That is not science to me. That is life. That is the way the universe pulls us by the collar and says pay attention now. Growing up around New Orleans, we learn early that fire is not just a thing you light. It is a personality. It is a lesson. It is that auntie who loves you but will snatch you straight if you get beside yourself. Down here we say do not play with fire unless you ready to get told about yourself, and baby, fire always tells the truth.

I have watched fire start from something small. A spark from a match. A careless cigarette. A stove left on because somebody swore they would be right back. That is how life does us too. The smallest habits we ignore. The little attitudes we excuse. The slick comments we let slide. We tell ourselves it is not that deep. We tell ourselves we got it under control. Meanwhile we are soaked in fuel and breathing mess like it is fresh air, just waiting on heat to show up and make an introduction.

Fuel is anything that can burn, and Lord knows we carry plenty of it. Ego that walks around puffed up like it owns the block. Pride that refuses to apologize even when it knows it is dead wrong. Anger that sits in the chest like it pays rent. Impatience that taps its foot and rolls its eyes at the timing of life. Frustration that leaks out in our tone. Depression that whispers lies when the lights go off. Anxiety that talks so loud peace cannot get a word in. That belief that we are self sufficient, that we do not need nobody, not even Creation, just us and our grit and our grind. That belief is some high octane fuel.

I used to think being strong meant carrying everything by myself. Head down. Teeth clenched. Smile tight. I thought asking for help meant I was failing. Fire cured me of that foolishness. Fire has a way of burning off what we cling to like it is oxygen. When the heat got high enough, all them attitudes I swore were just my personality started turning to ash. Turns out some things are not who you are. They are just what you picked up trying to survive.

Oxygen is what keeps a fire alive, and spiritually speaking, oxygen is what we keep allowing around us. The conversations we entertain. The environments we refuse to leave. The thoughts we keep replaying like a bad song on the radio. In New Orleans we say if you keep hanging around the barbershop, sooner or later you getting a haircut. You cannot keep breathing in bitterness and expect sweetness to grow in your chest. You cannot keep inhaling chaos and wonder why your spirit feels restless. Some of us are choking on what we call normal.

I had to look hard at what I was feeding my fire. The gossip dressed up as concern. The busyness pretending to be purpose. The noise that made me feel important but left me empty. I realized some fires are not meant to be put out with water. Some fires need to be starved. That means walking away. That means shutting your mouth sometimes. That means saying no even when folks look at you funny. That means choosing quiet over chaos even when quiet feels unfamiliar.

Heat is pressure. Heat is life doing what life does best. Bills. Loss. Disappointment. Unanswered prayers. Bodies that change. Plans that stall. Heat is when everything you built your confidence on starts shaking. Heat is when you realize you do not have as much control as you thought you did. Heat is not punishment. Heat is an invitation. It is life saying something needs your attention.

There were moments when I begged Creation to pull me out of the fire. I was tired. I was scared. I was done. Instead of pulling me out, Creation held me steady inside it. Like a midwife holding a child during birth. Like a potter watching clay in a kiln. I learned then that the womb and hands of Creation are not always gentle in the way we expect.

Sometimes they are firm. Sometimes they are hot. Always they are intentional.

In my neighborhood, there was an old story folks used to tell on slow evenings when the air was thick and the cicadas were loud. They talked about a man named Calypso Beauregard who lived way out past where the streetlights quit. Folks said he had an understanding with fire. Not control. Understanding. Every year after storm season, he would light a small fire behind his house. Nothing wild. Just enough to clear the brush. People laughed at him. Called him paranoid. Called him strange. One young boy asked him why he kept messing with fire like that. Calypso laughed and said fire is like truth. You deal with it on your terms or it will deal with you on its own.

One year a lightning storm rolled through and fires jumped all over the place. Houses burned. Fields turned black. Calypso place stood untouched. Folks swore it was luck. Others said it was wisdom. Calypso just shrugged and said everything that matters knows how to survive the flame.

That story stayed with me. Some things burn because they are not meant to last. Some things survive because they are real.

Extinguishing a fire is not always about panic. It is about wisdom. You remove heat by resting, by breathing, by praying without performance. You remove fuel by letting go of habits and mindsets that keep catching sparks. You remove oxygen by cutting off what feeds the chaos. This is not dramatic work. It is daily work. It is quiet work. It is holy work.

Humility is the firebreak we avoid because it bruises our ego. Humility says I do not have all the answers. Humility says I need help. Humility says slow down. In New Orleans we say you cannot ride two horses with one behind. Humility makes you choose what really matters.

When the fire settles, when the smoke clears, something always remains. Truth. Clarity. A softer strength. You come out changed. Not perfect. Not fearless. But aware. You learn what burns easy and what refuses to turn to ash. You learn what is worth protecting. You learn that Creation was never trying to destroy you. It was trying to introduce you to yourself.

I am still learning. Still shedding. Still burning off things that no longer serve my spirit. Some days the heat is light. Some days it is heavy. But I trust the hands that hold me there. I trust the womb that knows how to bring life out of pressure.

Make A Donation