The kindling is already stacked in the regulation teepee shape to achieve best burn, bits of dry bark and dry grass inside it, neatly stacked fuel logs ready to add.
“You ready?” she asks, crouching down with a matchbook.
So innocent sounding. Not at all like someone who has told some big old lies of omission. But I keep my face relaxed. “Ready.” I heft my tote bag to demonstrate.
At the fire ceremony we used to do for the kids, we’d give a speech about the transformative nature of fire: while it could destroy good things, like houses and forests if we weren’t careful, we had the power to harness it for good, to use it to burn things out of our lives that we didn’t want anymore.
Each counselor would make a big production of writing down what they wanted to burn out of their lives; most of us wrote the same thing for every ceremony since it was more about modeling what to do for the kids and making it okay for them to do the same thing.
Each counselor would step forward and read theirs aloud. I’d always put “I will throw away the pressure of other people’s expectations.” It sounded deep without being too specific. Then I’d let my paper fall into the fire.
Sawyer would always step forward and say, “Mine is private,” but later he told me his were blank. He’d wanted the kids to know they didn’t have to share if it was too personal.
Natalie had always put something different for each fire ceremony. She was already majoring in psychology, and her sincere efforts to fulfill the spirit of the activity during every session had foreshadowed the stellar therapist she would become.
It was a corny activity the way most camp activities are if you don’t look at them through a lens specific to the time and place, but it had always had a profound effect on the campers.
Over the years, Natalie told me about different kids who had sought her out on Instagram or through her website to let her know what a turning point the ceremony had been for them.
This time, I have every intention of leaning into this ceremony as much as Natalie always had.
“I’m glad you’re keeping this tradition,” I say. “I think of all the kids who have reached out to you about it since. That’s pretty special.”
“It can be, if you let it.” She tilts her head. “You used to say the same thing every time. The thing about other people’s expectations.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t taking it super seriously. I didn’t feel like putting myself out there for a bunch of little kids.”
“And now?”
“Now I want to embrace it. Truly let go of some things. I can’t believe I’ve only been here a day, and I already have so much clarity.”A ton of it, my friend. Enough clarity to see the trap y’all are laying for me. You’ll have to be much sneakier to outprank me.
I sit on one of the rough-hewn benches surrounding the fire pit and draw out my notebook and pen. “See? Supplies. I even have extras if you need them.”
“I’m impressed. Youaretaking this seriously.”
“Of course. Being here gives me a great measuring stick to see how much I’ve grown in ten years. I’m ready now.”
“You’re being a good sport, but I know you had to look past old hurts to do this for us, and I’m grateful.”
She’s so sincere. It almost makes me feel bad about everything I have planned tomorrow. Then I remember sitting on his deck, relaxed, while I skulked in the woods, freaking out.
The guilt passes. “I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
“It’s good for me to do the fire ceremony tonight too, so I can release some fears I have before the opening. So now we write them down.”
I settle my notebook on my knees and get to work. Natalie’s pencil scrapes softly on her paper, but while she’s done in less than a minute, I’m still writing. I write. And I write. And I write.
Natalie shifts on her seat, and I stifle a smile. We used to tell the campers to pick a word or write a sentence at most. I’m sure that’s what Natalie did, but I keep writing until I’m positive she’s uncomfortable. Mainly emotionally, but I won’t mind if a sliver pokes her in the butt either.
“I’m finished,” I announce after several minutes.
She tears a page from her notebook and walks to the fire, looking it over before reading it aloud. “I release my fear that we will meet emergencies we can’t handle. I release my fear we won’t succeed this summer. I release my fear we can’t do this as well as Director Warren did.”
She lets the paper flutter into the flames, and when it catches, she turns to me with a smile. “It still feels good to do that.”
I rise and walk to the fire while she takes her seat. At the edge, I clear my throat.
“You’re going to read it aloud.”
