The Phoenix and the Burning Bowl: an allegory of Sorts.

TLdR; A scrap of paper begins with a glimpse of darkness from within. Never again will it combust. You will rise again.

This piece is about slowing down enough to notice what we’ve been carrying. Think of a metaphorical burning bowl that gives permission for your inner Phoenix to achieve Altiora.

Notice not just the things from this year, but the things that have followed us for five, ten, fifteen, twenty, even twenty‑five years. The things we learned to live with. The things we grew around. The things we don’t talk about much anymore, but that still tug at us in quiet moments.

There is a majority of people that live their life they’re proud of. But the truth is, all along, we have grown. We’ve changed. We have found a steadiness that we didn’t always have. We’ve become people our younger selves wouldn’t even recognize.. in the best ways.

And still, there are memories that linger. There are moments that rise up unexpectedly.

There are versions of ourselves we thought we’d left behind that still tap us on the shoulder.

I know that feeling well. I’m still new to the community, new to this space, new to standing in front of you. And yet, even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve felt something steady, something welcoming, something that makes it possible to speak honestly without needing to explain every detail of the past.

Because the truth is: many of us carry hurt that spans years. Some of us carry pain that reshaped us. Some of us carry memories we wish we could rewrite. Some of us carry moments that still echo, even after we’ve done the work to move forward.

I’ve lived through seasons like that: seasons where the past felt heavier than the present, where old wounds resurfaced at the worst times, where I wasn’t sure if I was thriving or just surviving. Seasons where I learned to hold myself together because falling apart didn’t feel like an option.

Seasons where I kept going even when I didn’t know what “healed” was supposed to look like. And even now, even with the stability and contentment I’ve built, there are still memories that rise up. Not to undo me, but to remind me of how far I’ve come. To remind me that growth often comes from places we never wanted to visit. To remind me that healing is not a single moment… it’s a long, uneven path.

Today is a new chance to acknowledge all of that with honesty and gentleness.

I invite you to take whatever has been heavy, whether it’s from the last year or the last quarter‑century; And distill it onto something small enough to hold. It can be single word, or a letter, maybe even a symbol. Let it be something that captures the heaviness without needing to retell the whole story.

Because the whole story might be too big… but the impact it’ll have? Well, that can fit on scrap paper. When you write your word or symbol, you’re not erasing anything. You’re not pretending it didn’t matter. You’re simply giving shape to something that has lived inside you for a long time. You’re acknowledging it. You’re saying, “I see you. I understand what you were and I’m ready for something different now.”

You know something? Fire has a way of transforming things. It doesn’t just destroy. It changes form. It turns paper into ash.

And ash, in the natural world, is not an ending. It’s the beginning of nutrient rich soil. It’s what forests grow from after a burn. It’s what enriches the ground for spring.

When you place your paper into your metaphorical flame*, imagine that transformation. Imagine the heaviness breaking down into something lighter. Imagine the past becoming something that can nourish what comes next. Imagine the fire taking what no longer needs to be held so tightly and turning it into the raw material for new growth.

You don’t have to know what that new growth will look like. You don’t have to have a plan. You don’t have to feel “ready.” You just have to be willing to let the fire do its quiet work. By the way, letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. Letting go doesn’t mean the past stops mattering.

Letting go means loosening the grip: yours on it, and it on you.

It means making room for the possibility that the next season of your life might just grow from the very things that once hurt you. It means trusting (blindly) that transformation doesn’t always look dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like a small piece of paper curling into flame (or whatever metaphorical receptacle you put it in). Sometimes it looks like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Sometimes it looks like choosing not to carry something alone anymore.

I have carried a lot, and I’ve learned, slowly, to set things down. I can tell you that release doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in moments that feel like community. It happens in quiet, safe spaces, too. It happens in moments that keep you honest. It is the simple act of naming what has weighed on you and letting its edges curl until it is no more. As you write your word or symbol, take a heartfelt moment to feel the weight of what you’re releasing…not to re-live it, but to honor it.

Honor the version of yourself who lived through it. Honor the growth that came from it. Honor the resilience that carried you here.

And only when you’re ready (not when your group is), let the flame take it. Let the ash fall. Let the transformation begin in its own time, in its own way. May this be a day of gentleness for you. May this be a day of release. May this be a day where the past loosens its hold and the future opens just a little more.

And may whatever grows from the ash be something that nourishes you in the season ahead.

Before you move into the next part your day, I want to share a brief story. One that has stayed with me for a long time.

The Phoenix finds Altiora:

There’s a version of the Phoenix Myth that doesn’t center on a dramatic blaze at all. In this telling, my telling, the phoenix doesn’t erupt into flames or rise in a burst of light. Instead, it grows tired. It grows heavy. It carries years of its own history in its wings: the joy, the pain, the lessons, the parts it has outgrown. And when it can’t carry that weight anymore, it doesn’t explode. It rests. It finds a quiet place and it settles into stillness. And in that stillness, something subtle begins to happen.

The old feathers don’t burn away in a flash…they smolder softly and slowly. Almost imperceptibly. A gentle heat builds from within, not enough to scorch, just enough to loosen what no longer belongs. The phoenix isn’t destroyed; It is warmed. The embers glow under the surface, releasing the past in a steady, patient way. And then, in a moment that is more instinct than spectacle, the majestic bird gives a small shake. Not violently or dramatically. Just a natural, necessary motion.

And as it shakes, the loosened feathers fall away. Some drift down like soft charcoal. Some lift into the air, carried by the faintest breeze. Tiny embers glow at their edges before fading. Ash lifts and swirls, rising for a breath before dissolving into the open sky. Nothing is forced, and nothing is rushed.

The phoenix simply lets go of what’s no longer needed, and the world carries the remnants away.

Fin.

Here in the story is where this ties back to us.

For some of us, the word or symbol we write might feel like one of those feathers… something that has clung to us for years, now finally loose enough to fall away.

For others, it might feel like an ember… still warm, still glowing, but ready to cool.

For others still, it might feel like ash; The last trace of something that once mattered deeply, now light enough to drift with precision.

Whether you write a single letter, a shape, or a word you’ve never said out loud, know that it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to explain the whole story.

Remember, it is the symbolic piece that has been given permission to smolder, to lift, to effervesce.

Because the truth is:

• Many people today, do burst into flames. Not literally, but emotionally.

• We push ourselves until we burn out.

• We try to transform through intensity, urgency, and ultimately, collapse.

• We think we have to fall apart dramatically in order to rise again.

But growth doesn’t really look like that.

Growth looks like embers. Like warmth. Like a slow release of what we’ve carried for too long. Like a gentle ignition that begins quietly inside us. Like shaking loose the old feathers and letting the ash just… drift away.

This phoenix, the one who smolders instead of combusting, is the one I want my community to be. The one who transforms without destroying itself. The one who rises not through spectacle, but through steadiness. The one who trusts that becoming new doesn’t require burning everything down.

The Phoenix and the Burning Bowl isn’t really about spectacle. It’s simply a place to set something down. A place to let the old feathers smolder.

A place to trust that the warmth of release can make space for new life.

This story was shared with Faith Community on 12/28/2025.

*Fire is dangerous. Do not play with it. I am not responsible for putting out fires.