Imagine for a moment, you have a candle burning in front of you. Its flame dances rather gently, swaying left, then right, as it flickers light around the room. There’s a wisp of smoke as it flares up, and settles again. Yellows and oranges fill your eyes, with just the slightest hint of blue wrapping around the wick. It’s beauty, in that moment, both powerful and unmatched.
The flame is hot. This is a fact. You know that if you touch it, it will certainly cause a moment of pain. Perhaps not a burn, not a scar, but a neural signal to your pleasure centre that can only be described as pain.
When you were young, surely an adult told you, or a textbook told you, not to touch the flame. Your skin is too delicate for the heat of the flame.
So you fear it.
And many of us will live in perpetual fear of the flame, and perhaps never touch it again.
But some, discover, that while we can’t control the flame and its heat, we can control our own internal discourse about it. Instead of fearing its heat, we can cycle back to the opening scene of beauty, power, and light.
Can love and fear co-exist?
Can you love the candle, and all its beauty, yet still revere its power and heat?
Recently, as I sat chatting with a friend, we discussed my control tendencies. Significant changes to my life’s journey are on the horizon, and I feel absolutely inadequate. Out of control. So, while we unpacked a particularly difficult situation where I steeled myself and attempted to turnover whatever control I did to someone who needed it far more than I, she noted I was living in a place of fear. That while these transitions are coming, fear was ruling my decisions and emotion. And then she rather coolly told me to figure my shit out. I’m paraphrasing, but something to the effect of, “the person I know would get curious and face these challenges with kindness and love.” That the value I’ve brought has been curiosity, wonder, kindness, and a persistent musing with beauty and love.
I won’t lie. I was absolutely furious that she could see the big picture, while I muddled about in deprecation, loathing, and fear. That, and while I internally admit it, I seldom thank and appreciate the people in my life who truly know me. So let this be an immortal thank you. And affirmation that calling me on my bullshit is indeed a good thing.
Call Me By My Name was playing this past weekend. I’d recommend it to anyone who wants to understand the power of choosing love over fear, and how incredibly painful that choice can be. More, queer films are neat, and everyone should watch them.
Anyways. As I sat in a theatre full of who’s who and so-and-so’s, lazily tracing the knuckles of my date’s hand, I found myself captured by the raw beauty of Elio’s choice of love. I won’t spoil it for you, but if you can think of a time where you mentally tormented yourself because you weren’t sure your love was reciprocal – well, you’re on the right vein of fear. The movie results in tragedy, in that it doesn’t resolve in a way that is positive, fulfilling or kind. And as the lights came up, and the credits finished rolling, there was an odd hush over the who’s who and the so-and-so’s. And I loved it.
The room was so full of painful discourse. Heartbreak. Confusion. Concern. And as I sat with my date, who remarked nearly immediately how heartbreaking the end was, I felt completely differently.
That tragedy was so real. It was something the queer community experiences on a regular basis. And while I could sit in sadness of missed connections, loves lost, or the one-that-got-away, I would be lying. Those three things, which cause so many ifs and a world of pain for others, fuel me. They excite me. I have absolutely had loves in my life that got away. Why? Because they were meant for a moment, and not for a life time. And they were beautiful, kind, and incredible. So I look back fondly, even if I miss them terribly. They were for a moment, for a short while and I am and will continue to give thanks for those moments.
They shaped my urge to choose love over fear. They were flames. And I touched them. And when I look back on them, they hurt like hell. And yet, I will touch the flame again. Because touching the flame, regardless of its heat, is far better than fear.
So to that friend, in that moment, who called me out for living in fear – you were so fucking right. And I was mad. And I’m sorry. Yet, thank you for pointing me on my journey.
Today, I will touch the flame.
Orange & Ginger 