On Fire, Boundaries, and Burning It All Down

When the Universe Lights the Match

Truth is Beauty by Marco Cochrane. Burning Man 2013. Image by Arno Gourdol.

Burning Woman is the heart and soul of revolution—inner and outer. She burns for change, she dances in the fire of the old, all the while visioning and weaving the new.”
~Lucy H. Pearce, Burning Woman

Not long ago, I posted the following missive on Substack Notes:

I listened to a podcast the other day with two women speaking of burning it all down—meaning full-on life reboot.

My life has felt like that this last two weeks: one consulting project is blowing up with drama (caused by an outsider); another has a guy full-on mansplaining me; I got fired by my long-time accountant; I let go of a friend who continues to violate my boundaries; my house hasn’t rented.

And, guess what? I’m okay. I’m more than okay. I feel great. I held boundaries.

The truth is, for a variety of reasons, each of these arrangements was sub-optimal for me and I’ve been wanting to move on.

So now I’m moving on. While more dramatic than anticipated, I’m burnin’ it all down!

Truth is Beauty by Marco Cochrane. Burning Man 2013. Image by Trey Ratcliff with permission.

Wow, did this Note generate some fabulous conversation. Readers told their own burn-it-down stories, shared boundary struggles, wished me well. We talked of Tower moments, Phoenix rising from the ashes, how so many others on Substack appear to be moving through times of big change, the idea that perhaps this is a resonate theme in the collective.

We’ve all been there: the Universe delivers you a shitstorm and your personal response is all you have. As I replied to comments, I realized this recent series of events was piled on top of the larger shitstorm that had come my way this past year. That is, last year I discovered the cable company had drilled through my sewer pipe leaving me with a forced and unplanned, unbudgeted remodel to cure the water damage—with me as the general contractor, living in my backyard and van for four months—and a year’s worth of legal haranguing with my insurance company (fully denied) and the cable company. Eventually, the cable company made me partially whole and I walked away without litigating. (The case was damning and I likely would have been awarded more money but I decided in favor of my life energy and wellbeing and let it go.)

While I still have some final punch-list items to attend to, I’m largely free of it all and now have a home that feels brighter, more open, and more inspiring. In the end, the Universe conspired to push me forward on a project I’d wanted to undertake but had not prioritized. As one reader commented: The match lit itself.

And so it is. Sometimes the match lights itself.

Linnea Butler, MS, LMFT

asked whether I was familiar with chaparral, writing it’s a kind of plant in California and it needs to burn in order for the seeds to germinate and regenerate new plant material. And, while I am familiar with chaparral—I know it as the creosote bush that, by releasing oils and volatile compounds when it rains, imparts a particularly fragrant and identifiable aroma that makes the desert smell like rain (as in The Desert Smells Like Rain by Gary Paul Nabhan)—I wasn’t aware that its life cycle is fire-dependent. Linnea’s comment got me thinking about just this concept in nature.

I live in a wildfire-prone region of the Rocky Mountains, and from my studies of ecosystem ecology, am familiar with fire ecology. Fire is an expected and necessary force in ecosystems, playing a role in shaping plant communities, nutrient cycling, wildlife habitat and communities, soil properties, and ecosystem biodiversity.

Fire regimes—which describe the pattern, frequency, and intensity of wildfires—are intricately linked to specific ecosystem types. For example, Mediterranean ecosystems, characterized by shrublands and Mediterranean climates (like those of Southern California), experience frequent, often large and wind-driven fires resulting from dry fuels and seasonal drought. Historical fire regimes in plains grassland and prairie ecosystems have been characterized by frequent, low-severity fires with return intervals ranging from 1 to 35 years. Ponderosa pine and mixed-conifer forests, along with savanna and chaparral systems, include fire-adapted species (like ponderosa pine) that can tolerate or even benefit from fire, and fire-dependent species (like the chaparral Linnea pointed out) that require fire for germination or reproduction. Historically, fire regimes were well-regulated natural cycles playing a critical role in ecosystem health.

Of course, these regimes are now being altered by human disturbance in myriad ways. Climate change is causing more frequent and severe droughts, thereby increasing fuel dryness and fire risk. Fire suppression efforts lead to fuel buildup, paving the way for larger, more intense fires in the long-term. Activities on land impact fire regimes in various ways: grazing, for example, reduces fuel loads and thus wildfire risk, while logging increases fuel loads (by leaving behind large amounts of woody debris), which leads to higher fire intensity and spread rates; alters microclimates, making forests drier and more susceptible to fire; increases ignition points in a forest through additional roads; and more—all of which lead to vicious cycles of fire suppression and increasingly severe wildfires.

As I think about the concept of burnin’ it all down (or even tending small fires to clear detritus from our lives), I realize I'd accumulated some fire fuel—a little scruffy underbrush here, some unpruned shrubs there, a pile of tinder elsewhere—in my life. I knew it but hadn’t mustered the motivation to clean it out nor to set it ablaze. And, so the Universe lit her match and started the process for me.

While the idea of burnin’ it all down can feel energizing, I do see the parallels to our behaviors and their relationship to trauma and attachment wounds. The scorched earth approach is likely born of trauma, avoidance, and difficulty regulating emotions. (I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of behavior and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.) Conversely, accumulation of far too much debris can be a sign of the people-pleasing that accompanies anxious attachment. And, somewhere in the middle is a place of balance—a manageable amount of fuel and understory and a well-regulated fire regime for needed clearing—that allows us to exist in relative peace. A tolerance for some chaos but not too much; a good dose of self-awareness; clarity of intent and purpose; and healthy boundaries to ensure personal safety and guide our relationships.

While the events of the last couple weeks have been challenging, in each case, I was internally clear about my needs. This allowed me to refrain from going all scorched earth and instead, to navigate by breathing my way through it and staying grounded and unreactive. And, guess what? In the end, each situation burned itself down—all while I quietly observed. The drama around one of my consulting projects, for instance, spiraled away on its own as the local press picked up on the details and published several scathing articles revealing attempts by outsiders to circumvent public process. This had been my point all along, but by staying out of the fray, I allowed karma to work her magic. And, she did. I feel lighter for it.

To burning for change, dancing in the fire of the old, and visioning and weaving the new.

xo Wendy

How does this land for you? Do you allow too much fuel to accumulate or do you have a regular fire regime? Have you ever gone all scorched earth? What happened? Please share your burn-it-down stories!