I stepped out of grief -- by dancing with fire

When I was six years old,

our house caught fire

and my mother died.

It was a cold, February night in Michigan.

Our chimney had recently been fixed,

so we had a warm fire
going in the fireplace.

My younger sister and I
were sitting next to our dog

and coloring with a brand new
box of colored pencils

when Mom said it was time for bed.

We'd planned to go up north that night
for a weekend of snowmobiling

and sledding,

but it was already dark
and snowing outside,

so we decided to leave
the next morning instead.

We went upstairs,

brushed our teeth,

climbed into bed --

my sister's room right next to the stairs

and mine at the far end of the hallway.

Our parents tucked us in
and kissed us goodnight,

then left the door open just a crack

and the hallway light on,

as it always was.

In the middle of the night
I woke up sweating,

confused because I couldn't
see that hallway light.

I started shouting for my parents

until finally I heard words
that I'll never forget:

"Dave, it's a fire."

We later found out
that our fire from earlier

had burned through an unrepaired
crack in the chimney

causing the fireplace doors to explode

and fire to just pour
into the living room.

I remember my mom
running down to my sister's room,

frantically searching for her

and finally finding her on the floor.

I crawled after her on my hands and knees,

trying not to breathe in the smoke.

I remember standing
next to my sister's room,

trying to turn on that hallway light,

but it was already on,

I just couldn't see it because
the smoke was so thick.

I remember feeling the heat
of the fire on my skin

and hearing the sound of it
as it climbed up the stairs.

My dad ran down to my bedroom window
as an escape route,

but it was February
and it was frozen shut.

Eventually, he broke the window
and pried it open,

his arms and hands covered
in glass and cuts.

He lifted my sister and me
onto an awning under the window

and told us to shout for help.

Not seeing my mom,

he considered going back
into the fire to find her,

but after looking at my sister and me
huddled together on that roof,

and knowing that neither of them
may make it out,

he stayed with us,

calling her name
through the window instead.

After a few minutes,

a man driving down the street
saw the smoke and fire,

drove onto our lawn,

climbed onto the roof of his car

and told us to jump into his arms.

We'd never seen him before,

and even though he saved our lives,

we never saw him again.

We were brought over to a neighbor's house

while Dad continued to wait
on the roof for my mom,

reaching his arms and hands
through the window

and into the fire,

calling her name over and over.

He said later that when the fire
department arrived,

they carried him down the ladder
just as a lower-level window shattered

and burst into flames.

It took the fire department
longer to find my mom.

She'd been on the floor
of my bedroom the entire time,

pinned down by a dresser
that had fallen on her leg.

We think she went back
to look for our dog,

but by the time the fire department
reached them it was too late.

She died on the way to the hospital.

Dad was in critical condition

with smoke inhalation and burns
and cuts over a third of his body.

He spent nearly a month in the hospital,

unable to attend Mom's funeral

and undergoing multiple,
excruciating skin graft surgeries.

My sister and I stayed
with a neighbor across the street,

but we would sit in front
of their living room window for hours

just staring at the remains
of our burnt home.

After a few days it became evident
that we would need to go

and stay with some
different family friends.

The next few years were tough.

As a single father of two young girls,

Dad did his very best to provide for us

as we all tried to grieve and recover.

We began to move on in this new reality.

Dad bought a new house
down the street --

without a fireplace --

and eventually remarried.

My sister and I excelled in school.

I was a cheerleader

and she rode horses
and played in the band.

But nothing could stop the gut-wrenching
nightmares that haunted me.

I would dream of fire,

of being trapped in fire with no escape.

I remember and even now
I can feel the sheer panic

and the pressure in my chest.

Or worse were the dreams where
I was outside the fire watching it,

trying to save the people inside.

I'd wake up gasping for breath,

tears running down my face

and sobbing.

When I was 15,

a friend of mine,

and a very talented artist,

painted two abstract portraits for me.

One was done in black and white

and depicted a scared girl
cowering in the corner of a room,

shadows surrounding her.

The other was a bursting rainbow of color;

the girl was in the center of the page,

arms open and outstretched,

clearly full of joy and happiness.

He knew my past

and he knew that I was
conflicted and confused,

but he'd also seen my potential

and wanted to show me what he already saw.

After a few years,

I realized that these two portraits

showed two completely different
paths before me.

A life of fear

or the promise and potential for recovery.

I had always been drawn
to that brighter, more colorful painting,

but I wasn't quite sure
what it meant for me

or how to transform my current mentality
into that kind of joy and happiness.

So outwardly,

I moved on with life --

graduated high school,

went to college --

while inwardly,

I continued to bounce
between the highest of highs

and the lowest of lows,

like a Ping-Pong ball
between those two portraits.

In 2004, I went backpacking
through Central America with a friend.

We spent our first weekend
on the island of Roatán,

off the coast of Honduras.

After a few days there,

my friend and I realized

that one of our new local friends
was a fire dancer.

Neither of us had ever seen
fire dancing before,

so one night we decided to go see a show.

We watched, mesmerized,

as he and two friends lit
these props on fire,

threw them in the air

and spun them around their bodies.

Their moves were deliberate and controlled

yet still graceful
and flowing to the music.

I was completely entranced.

The next day he offered
to teach us how to fire dance,

or spin --

without fire, of course.

He showed us the difference
between a fire staff

which is a long piece of wood
or aluminum with two Kevlar wicks,

and fire poi which are Kevlar wicks
with chains and finger loops.

After that first time spinning poi,

I knew that this was a hobby
that I wanted to continue learning

in the hopes that maybe one day

I might be brave enough
to try it with fire.

Now, I can guess what
people might be thinking.

How was I not terrified
and running in the opposite direction?

And honestly, I don't know.

I think that perhaps being a cheerleader
and doing gymnastics and piano

while growing up,

these activities were
very structured and prescribed,

whereas this type of flow art
seemed like a form of meditation

but with a focus on fire --

this thing that scared me
so deeply for my entire life.

After that first time practicing,

my friend and I cobbled together
our own sets of homemade poi

using socks, shoelaces and tennis balls.

We did not light shoelaces
and socks on fire,

we just used it for the practice part.

But after returning home to Michigan,

we decided to buy
our own sets of actual fire poi.

And after a few months,

we decided that we were ready
to light them on fire.

We bundled up in cotton layers,

got a fire extinguisher,

wet a towel for safety,

prepared our fuel,

gave each other a very energetic
pep talk and high five,

and lit those poi on fire.

It was terrifying.

Half of my brain was freaking out

and thinking, OK, wait,

maybe we need to think about this.

We should probably stop.

The sound of the fire
as it whooshed by my head

was incredibly loud

and brought me right back to my childhood.

But it was also incredibly exhilarating.

The other half of my brain,

the creative half was thinking,

I can't believe it;

I'm a fire dancer.

For anyone who spins,

there's a level of adrenaline

or that rush of fire dancing,

but as someone whose life
had been so greatly impacted by fire,

I also felt an immense sense
of empowerment

at being able to control
and manipulate fire.

I made a conscious decision
to step out of my grief.

It was not easy.

There's a Nirvana lyric that says
"I miss the comfort of being sad,"

and that was exactly it.

I was in control of my sadness.

I knew what it would bring to me

and I knew what to expect,

but I also knew deep down

that eventually I had to do
that really hard work

of trying to heal from my past.

So I kept practicing.

I took a plastic grocery bag,

cut it into strips,

tied it to the ends of those poi

and used it to replicate
the sound of the fire

as it went past my head.

And I kept lighting the poi on fire.

At some point, something shifted.

My perspective on fire dancing changed

from something that I was
apprehensive about

to something that brought
me a sort of peace.

Without realizing it,

I had initiated my own form
of exposure therapy.

An actual type of psychotherapy

where you deliberately expose yourself
to things that have caused you trauma

or scare you.

I'd exposed myself to fire
in this very unique way

and had transformed what it meant to me.

My nightmares slowed down

and now years later have stopped
almost completely.

I started fire dancing not just for myself
but at events and performances.

I started a fire troop with friends
while living in Dubai,

created beautiful art with my sister
who became a photographer,

taught children how to spin
at birthday parties,

performed onstage and at festivals

and even taught my own children
the basics of spinning.

And that's not to say

that I don't still have
an apprehension to fire in general.

I can practice a move a million times,

but then when I try it with fire,

I feel that familiar panic
and tightening in my chest.

I'm still apprehensive about living
in a two-story house

or having a fireplace.

Every night before I go to sleep,

I clear a path between
my kids' bedroom doors,

our bedroom door

and all the exit doors

in case we need to leave quickly.

And it's taken me
a long time to get onboard

with the idea of closing
bedroom doors at night

to slow down a fire,

because I'd always thought if I closed
my kids' bedroom doors,

I might not be able to hear them
like my mom heard me.

And of course this is my story;

I can't say that I have the answer

for someone with a different
kind of trauma.

If the situation had been reversed

and I'd lost a child in a fire,

I'm not sure that fire dancing
would be the answer

or if I'd even have the capacity
to get near fire again.

But what I can say from my own experience

is that after experiencing
a trauma or hardship,

you have a choice between two paths:

one path will lead you to a life
of fear and cowering in the darkness

like that black-and-white painting
I described earlier.

You might move on with life,

but at the same time you're still clinging
to that sadness that brings you comfort.

The other path --

stepping out of grief --

will not change or undo anything.

It will be hard.

It will always be hard,

with high mountains
and deep, dark valleys,

but this path looks forward
and moves forward.

When I learned to dance with fire,

I learned to reconcile
the traumatic part of my life

with the totality of my life
as it was still unfolding.

Fire became more than just trauma

but beauty and art as well:

everything, all at once,

just like life,

flickering and smoldering

and burning and dazzling.

And somehow in the middle of it,

finding a way to dance ...

me.

Thank you.