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When I was six years old,
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our house caught fire,
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and my mother died.
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It was a cold February night in Michigan.
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Our chimney had recently been fixed,
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so we had a warm fire going
in the fireplace.
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My younger sister and I
were sitting next to our dog
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and coloring with a brand-new box
of colored pencils,
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when Mom said it was time for bed.
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We'd planned to go up north that night
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for a weekend of
snowmobiling and sledding,
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but it was already dark
and snowing outside,
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so we decided to leave
the next morning instead.
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We went upstairs, brushed our teeth,
climbed into bed,
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my sister's room right next to the stairs,
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and mine at the far end of the hallway.
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Our parents tucked us in
and kissed us good night
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then left the door open just a crack,
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and the hallway light on,
as it always was.
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In the middle of the night,
I woke up sweating,
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confused because I couldn't see
that hallway light.
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I started shouting for my parents
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until finally, I heard words
that I'll never forget:
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"Dave, it's a fire!"
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We later found out
that our fire from earlier
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had burned through an unrepaired
crack in the chimney,
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causing the fireplace doors to explode
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and fire to just pour into
the living room.
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I remember my mom running down
to my sister's room,
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frantically searching for her
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and finally finding her on the floor.
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I crawled after her on my hands and knees,
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trying not to breathe in the smoke.
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I remember standing
next to my sister's room,
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trying to turn on that hallway light,
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but it was already on;
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I just couldn't see it because
the smoke was so thick.
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I remember feeling
the heat of the fire on my skin
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and hearing the sound of it
as it climbed up the stairs.
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My dad ran down to my bedroom window
as an escape route,
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but it was February,
and it was frozen shut.
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Eventually, he broke the window
and pried it open,
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his arms and hands covered
in glass and cuts.
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He lifted my sister and me
onto an awning under the window
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and told us to shout for help.
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Not seeing my mom,
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he considered going back
into the fire to find her,
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but after looking at my sister and me
huddled together on that roof
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and knowing that neither of them
may make it out,
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he stayed with us,
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calling her name
through the window instead.
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After a few minutes,
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a man driving down the street
saw the smoke and fire,
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drove onto our lawn,
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climbed onto the roof of his car
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and told us to jump into his arms.
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We'd never seen him before,
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and even though he saved our lives,
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we never saw him again.
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We were brought over to a neighbor's house
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while Dad continued to wait
on the roof for my mom,
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reaching his arms and hands
through the window
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and into the fire,
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calling her name over and over.
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He said later that when
the fire department arrived,
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they carried him down the ladder
just as a lower-level window shattered
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and burst into flames.
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It took the fire department
longer to find my mom.
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She'd been on the floor
of my bedroom the entire time,
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pinned down by a dresser
that had fallen on her leg.
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We think she went back
to look for our dog,
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but by the time the fire department
reached them it was too late.
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She died on the way to the hospital.
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Dad was in critical condition,
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with smoke inhalation and burns
and cuts over a third of his body.
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He spent nearly a month in the hospital,
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unable to attend Mom's funeral
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and undergoing multiple,
excruciating skin graft surgeries.
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My sister and I stayed
with a neighbor across the street,
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but we would sit in front
of their living room window for hours,
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just staring at the remains
of our burnt home.
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After a few days, it became evident
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that we would need to go and stay
with some different family friends.
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The next few years were tough.
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As a single father of two young girls,
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Dad did his very best to provide for us
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as we all tried to grieve and recover.
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We began to move on in this new reality.
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Dad bought a new house down the street,
without a fireplace,
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and eventually remarried.
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My sister and I excelled in school.
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I was a cheerleader,
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and she rode horses
and played in the band.
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But nothing could stop the gut-wrenching
nightmares that haunted me.
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I would dream of fire,
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of being trapped in fire with no escape.
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I remember, and even now I can feel,
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the sheer panic
and the pressure in my chest.
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Or worse were the dreams where
I was outside the fire watching it,
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trying to save the people inside.
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I'd wake up gasping for breath,
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tears running down my face and sobbing.
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When I was 15,
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a friend of mine
and a very talented artist,
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painted two abstract portraits for me.
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One was done in black and white
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and depicted a scared girl
cowering in the corner of a room,
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shadows surrounding her.
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The other was a bursting rainbow of color;
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the girl was in the center of the page,
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arms open and outstretched,
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clearly full of joy and happiness.
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He knew my past,
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and he knew that I was
conflicted and confused,
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but he had also seen my potential
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and wanted to show me what he already saw.
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After a few years,
I realized that these two portraits
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showed two completely different
paths before me:
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a life of fear
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or the promise and potential for recovery.
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I had always been drawn
to that brighter, more colorful painting,
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but I wasn't quite sure
what it meant for me
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or how to transform my current mentality
into that kind of joy and happiness.
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So outwardly, I moved on with life --
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graduated high school, went to college --
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while inwardly,
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I continued to bounce between
the highest of highs
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and the lowest of lows,
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like a Ping-Pong ball
between those two portraits.
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In 2004, I went backpacking
through Central America with a friend.
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We spent our first week
on the island of Roatán,
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off the coast of Honduras.
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After a few days there,
my friend and I realized
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that one of our new local friends
was a fire dancer.
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Neither of us had ever seen
fire dancing before,
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so one night, we decided to go see a show.
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We watched, mesmerized,
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as he and two friends
lit these props on fire,
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threw them in the air
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and spun them around their bodies.
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Their moves were
deliberate and controlled,
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yet still graceful
and flowing to the music.
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I was completely entranced.
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The next day, he offered to teach us
how to fire dance, or "spin" --
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without fire, of course.
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He showed us the difference
between a fire staff,
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which is a long piece of wood
or aluminum with two Kevlar wicks,
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and fire poi, which are Kevlar wicks
with chains and finger loops.
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After that first time spinning poi,
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I knew that this was a hobby
that I wanted to continue learning
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in the hopes that maybe one day,
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I might be brave enough
to try it with fire.
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Now, I can guess what
people might be thinking:
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How was I not terrified
and running in the opposite direction?
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And honestly, I don't know.
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I think that perhaps being a cheerleader
and doing gymnastics and piano
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while growing up,
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these activities were
very structured and prescribed,
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whereas this type of flow art
seemed like a form of meditation
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but with a focus on fire,
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this thing that scared me
so deeply for my entire life.
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After that first time practicing,
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my friend and I cobbled together
our own sets of homemade poi
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using socks, shoelaces and tennis balls.
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We did not light shoelaces
and socks on fire,
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we just used it for the practice part.
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But after returning home to Michigan,
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we decided to buy
our own sets of actual fire poi.
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And after a few months,
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we decided that we were ready
to light them on fire.
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We bundled up in cotton layers,
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got a fire extinguisher,
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wet a towel for safety,
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prepared our fuel,
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gave each other a very energetic
pep talk and high five
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and lit those poi on fire.
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It was terrifying.
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Half of my brain was freaking out
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and thinking, "OK, wait --
maybe we need to think about this.
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We should probably stop."
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The sound of the fire
as it whooshed by my head
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was incredibly loud
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and brought me right back to my childhood.
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But it was also incredibly exhilarating.
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The other half of my brain,
the creative half, was thinking,
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"I can't believe it! I'm a fire dancer."
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For anyone who spins,
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there's a level of adrenaline
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or that rush of fire dancing.
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But as someone whose life
had been so greatly impacted by fire,
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I also felt an immense sense
of empowerment
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at being able to control
and manipulate fire.
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I made a conscious decision
to step out of my grief.
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It was not easy.
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There's a Nirvana lyric that says
"I miss the comfort of being sad,"
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and that was exactly it.
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I was in control of my sadness.
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I knew what it would bring to me,
and I knew what to expect,
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but I also knew deep down that eventually,
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I had to do that really hard work
of trying to heal from my past.
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So I kept practicing.
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I took a plastic grocery bag,
cut it into strips,
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tied it to the ends of those poi
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and used it to replicate the sound
of the fire as it went past my head.
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And I kept lighting the poi on fire.
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At some point, something shifted.
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My perspective on fire dancing changed
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from something that I was
apprehensive about
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to something that brought me
a sort of peace.
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Without realizing it,
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I had initiated my own form
of exposure therapy,
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an actual type of psychotherapy
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where you deliberately expose yourself
to things that have caused you trauma
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or scare you.
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I'd exposed myself to fire
in this very unique way
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and had transformed what it meant to me.
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My nightmares slowed down
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and now, years later,
have stopped almost completely.
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I started fire dancing not just for myself
but at events and performances.
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I started a fire troop with friends
while living in Dubai,
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created beautiful art with my sister
who became a photographer,
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taught children how to spin
at birthday parties,
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performed onstage and at festivals
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and even taught my own children
the basics of spinning.
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And that's not to say
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that I don't still have
an apprehension to fire in general.
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I can practice a move a million times,
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but then when I try it with fire,
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I feel that familiar panic
and tightening in my chest.
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I'm still apprehensive about living
in a two-story house
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or having a fireplace.
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Every night before I go to sleep,
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I clear a path between
my kids' bedroom doors,
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our bedroom door
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and all the exit doors,
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in case we need to leave quickly.
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And it's taken me a long time
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to get on board with the idea
of closing bedroom doors at night
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to slow down a fire,
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because I'd always thought if I closed
my kids' bedroom doors,
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I might not be able to hear them
like my mom heard me.
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And of course, this is my story.
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I can't say that I have the answer
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for someone with a different
kind of trauma.
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If the situation had been reversed,
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and I'd lost a child in a fire,
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I'm not sure that fire dancing
would be the answer,
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or if I'd even have the capacity
to get near fire again.
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But what I can say from my own experience
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is that after experiencing
a trauma or hardship,
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you have a choice between two paths.
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One path will lead you to a life of fear
and cowering in the darkness,
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like that black-and-white painting
I described earlier.
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You might move on with life,
but at the same time,
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you're still clinging to that sadness
that brings you comfort.
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The other path, stepping out of grief,
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will not change or undo anything.
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It will be hard.
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It will always be hard,
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with high mountains
and deep, dark valleys.
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But this path looks forward
and moves forward.
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When I learned to dance with fire,
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I learned to reconcile
the traumatic part of my life
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with the totality of my life
as it was still unfolding.
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Fire became more than just trauma
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but beauty and art as well,
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everything, all at once, just like life,
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flickering and smoldering
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and burning and dazzling,
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and somehow, in the middle of it,
finding a way to dance ...
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me.
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Thank you.