Apply Heat. Repeat.

When motivation is on ice.

My motivation lately has been fluctuating wildly.

I am (finally) going through the Artists Way with a group of (500) other artists online.

I’ve been writing morning pages (3 pages of brain dump) every morning . I have been doing the reading. I have been doing (some of) the tasks, I have been showing up for the weekly group meetups (they are a tonic), I have signed up for and attended other writing groups, I have gotten immensely inspired, I have written a cover of a song that had me dancing on my pit last week. I’ve drafted a vision I’m excited about. I have several projects in the works.

And yet, my fingers are hiccuping all over the keys on this page. They stutter, they …

And I’m confused. My brain feels slow. Something feels frozen.

---

On Thursday of this week, I had brunch with friends, got super energized by my ideas and theirs, went to Blick and bought craft supplies for one of the projects I am most excited about and then got home, put the supplies on the table, sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. For the rest of the day.

And I was so. mad. at myself. And almost in disbelief. The creative energy feels good. What happens when I sit on this couch?

Do I freeze because of something I’m doing? Is a part of me railing against this creativity?

If I’m frozen, do I just need a little heat to thaw?

Ironically (or synchronistically) I was feeling uninspired already by this little gathering of words and so I opened up my doc of things I want to write about looking for another topic.

A story with fire as the protagonist, not the villain.

Someone smiles. We go on.

I jotted that idea down when I was talking to my niece. We were writing a story and she brought up fire. I love fire as a force and my brain snared on the fact that it's so often the villain.

Hell is a place on fire.

Fire-breathing dragons scorch the earth and must be slain for the hero to win.

In Moana, Te Kā is a demon of fire, but once her heart is restored, she becomes Te Fiti, the goddess of creation. The bad girl fire disappears.

When I was in Hawaii, I had what I felt like was a spiritual connection with Pele, the goddess of volcanoes and fire. She’s known for creation, but mostly because of her temper. She is revered for her gifts, but her creation is a side effect of rage, jealousy, and wrath.

I honor that fire is also a good thing in much of early mythology, a gift stolen or given to the people to cook and stay warm, a symbol of the hearth or the sun.

But when fire is a woman, she is angry. She destroys. She’s too much.

Maybe it’s the Aries in me, but that’s just not my favorite narrative. What if there’s another.

---

---

I am here on the couch.

Staring at the big block of ice in the middle of the room.

I have been here for days.

Staring at this block.

There are small chunks missing where I wailed on it in a fit of self disgust, frustration, or guilt. The worthless pickaxe is stuck in one side, taken by the ice that refused to be abused.

I’ve been moving around the ice and my paces widen as it grows. I’ll be creeping around the edges of my room soon.

I peer over the block at the tv while I chop vegetables for lunch. The preheating oven makes a divot and a little puddle, but I don’t notice.

Someone knocks at the door. She doesn’t wait for a welcome in. She enters like a summer storm. A bead of sweat teases my hairline and then soaks it.

It’s fucking cold in here.

She’s coatless. The whole room suddenly smells of chilis, of flame, of cinnamon in hot cider, of electricity. My eyes and mouth both start to water, but I just stare. She surveys the room. Her eyes alight on the only thing really left to see.

What is this block of ice doing in the middle of your floor?

Resting.

Her eyes are aflame, her fingers burn an amber, and she takes a step forward, toward. Heat radiates off her skin. Her hair licks at the air between her and the ice. I’m sure it can taste me. Fire knows fire.

Please don’t! I stand between her and the ice.

Why not? It’s cold.

There’s something in there.

You built this ice block around it? On purpose? Why?

I don’t know how on purpose it was. But maybe to protect it.

From what?

From me. I’m made of fire.

Is that all?

And from the world. The world eats things like this.

Is it precious?

Yes.

Let’s see.

She breezes by me, her arm brushes mine, and every little hair reaches out to grab her, a shiver leaves my body, replaced by something else. Heat rises, blown up from my toes.

I turn to look with her, we’re close enough to catch each other’s breath.

She squints to see past the white discoloration, the streaks, the air bubbles caught in the thickness of an ice built quickly.

She gasps and her hand flicks to my waist. My cheeks flush. My ears burn.

Inside, it’s technicolor.

We have to get that out. It’s going to change everything.

I’m not sure.

I am.

She puts her hands on the ice and I can feel it shudder from surprise and then calm under her touch. A puddle starts to form on the floor, but she blows on it gently and it comes away clean before soaking the wood floors. She keeps going.

The room smells like freshly brewed tea, like hot cocoa, like wood crackling, like dusk, like a pipe, like eyes closed, like toasted marshmallows and sticky hands. I pull my hair across my face to get closer to all of the scents trapped there. She reaches over and tucks it behind my ear with her campfire-infused hand.

Watch. Fireworks go off in my brain and for a moment I can’t see anyway, but I look.

They’re still there when my eyes open, the ice is raining up, champagne bubbles, shattering into glitter and suspended glass that drifts down and dissipates on a wave of heat.

And then there it is.

Purples and blues and greens and swirling around themselves. My dreams. The things I want to do.

She reaches for it.

No.

You’ll burn it. Fire is too intense. It’s too much. I’m too much.

Her eyes burn me into silence. And she reaches out, I cringe waiting for her to flick my dreams into ash.

But they ignite. Swirls of color become people, signs, communicating, reaching out, hugging, holding space, sharing. They dance. They animate. They pulsate. They’re not scared of her heat - they like it. They’re getting closer, entranced, but just before they touch her flame of a nose, she pivots to me. They suspend without her attention. Doubt on a breeze makes them shiver.

Now, you.

No.

You’re not too much.

She takes my hand. Cozy blankets, a friend’s warm socks, trust, sparking tinder. And she pushes me forward. A phoenix.

I reach out, slowly, for my friends and they come running. Their dancing feet are cool drops on my hot skin. They tug on my earlobes and swing from my hair. They ask me where I’ve been. They’re delighted. They giggle. They whisper the ways we can change things. They play. The project their little vignettes of success, the only possibility, onto my eyelids. They reimagine a world in full-color. They act out the scenes with sets fabricated out of thin air. My fingers light their stories. It’s magic.

Something hesitates inside me as my smile and ideas get too big. I glance at the couch. The animations shiver. They look at me, too good to be true.

Her hand is at the small of my back, the skim of a magnet.

Why are you cold?

I’m scared of what happens. I’m scared of feeling too good. And then it disappearing. Thinking I can do it. And then failing. Not knowing what’s going to happen. Losing interest. Not being any good. Destroying the dreams I created. Not knowing what will happen.

You don’t destroy, you ignite. Fire creates. Fire beckons and beacons. It attracts. It’s only dangerous when it’s not tended. You know how to tend.

I do. But. Maybe there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to do it. A part that is scared of what really exists outside these patterns. It might be better to keep these things on ice so I can dream about them without them going anywhere. So I can talk about them, but not have to do actually do the hard work, not have to risk the outcome, not have to see what the world says back.

What an absolute waste that would be.

I hear your fear. I can hold it. But fear holds fire back? Unlikely story. Fear can only hold fire back for so long before she burns everything down.

So that’s how we got all the myths.

What?

Nothing.

When fear takes hold, apply a kiss of gentle heat.

She shows me how and I’m candescent vapor.

There are more blocks of ice out there. Your fire has a lot to do. Take fear by the hand and get going.

She walks out on wings of flames. Crackling, they lick at her heels. She’s gone, but her heat remains. I look down and we’re glowing.