set it on fire 🔥

a year of trying

The smell of burning paper filled my nostrils. Warmth from the flame licked at my skin. I watched my handwriting disappear, floating away in wisps of smoke and ash.

Last June, I started lighting my thoughts on fire. Literally.

🔥🔥🔥

While summer glowed outside my window, a different kind of fire kindled within me. My mind played tricks. The thoughts were quick and harsh. I felt stuck.

In moments of desperation, I’d stand over my sink, lighter in one hand, paper in the other. These weren't photographs or letters. They were my exhausting ruminations — uncensored, straight from the chaotic stream of my consciousness. No editing. No filtering. Just the truth of my inner world.

Flash. Searing. Ash.

With each flame, I hoped to find release. To watch my demons curl and blacken, to feel the heaviness of my anxieties lift as they faded into weightless nothings.

But what began as an exercise in erasure became the catalyst for my rebirth — a step towards liberation.

My darkest commentary turned to embers, creating space for something new to emerge — a voice that yearned to be heard, a story that needed to be told.

Untitled, acrylic and oil on canvas, 1997. Karen Arm.

Last June, I didn't know I was a writer. I couldn't fathom the power of putting pen to paper. But writing wasn't just a skill I'd discover, it was the path forward.

Those flames that consumed my scribbled sentences were just the beginning. As the ashes cooled, something unexpected stirred within me. Feelings, once trapped and tormented, began to flow freely. They spilled onto pages, no longer destined for destruction, but for discovery.

With each sentence, I unearthed parts of myself long buried. Writing became my excavation tool, digging deep into the bedrock of my experiences, fears, and dreams. It was messy, sometimes painful, but always illuminating.

I found myself penning truths I'd never dared speak aloud. Cracks and scars I'd hidden even from myself emerged in black and white, impossible to ignore. But instead of feeling exposed, I felt...seen. Understood. Even if only by myself at first.

As I shared these words I realized I wasn't alone. The rawness that scared me, is what resonated with others, creating connections I never thought possible. Because when we bare our souls, we invite others to do the same.

But I never anticipated the profound impact of those who would read my musings. My readers, fellow writers, and the community that formed around this shared vulnerability have given me gifts I struggle to articulate.

How do you properly thank someone for their courage? For the moment they say, "Me too," and suddenly you're not alone? For the way, they cradle your faith and revelations in gentle hands and knowing eyes?

You — you beautiful souls — have woven and sheathed me in blankets of belonging, thread by thread, comment by comment. You’ve shown me that exposure isn't a weakness, but a strength that binds us. And the bravery displayed through the sharing of your stories has bolstered mine, creating a cycle of compassionate grit that continues to astound me.

Words feel inadequate to express the depth of my gratitude. But perhaps that's fitting — this journey has taught me that sometimes, the most profound bonds are forged in the spaces, in the shared understanding of what can't be fully said.

Writing didn't just change what I did; it changed who I am. It shifted me from a silent observer to an active participant, from someone who burned their words to someone who shared them, triggering conversations and awakening relationships.

Writing has burst me open and set me ablaze — with passion, with purpose, with a newfound sense of self.

All living things are in some way fertilized, tempered, ripened or destroyed by forms of fire…Friction ignites the hidden fire of wood and stone, as it transposes possibility into conception. A single flame-point illuminates darkness, focuses or mesmerizes the eye, ascends in the vapors of inspiration and offering. The fire of passions sweeps through the body, consuming and germinating, just as a conflagration can blacken the forest and engender new growth.

— The Book of Symbols: Reflections on Archetypal Images

As I reflect on this year, I'm moved by the transformative nature of fire itself.

What began as a solitary, gloomy act, became the friction that ignited something new within me. Like wood and stone revealing their hidden fire, writing births possibilities.

Each word I've shared has been like "a single flame-point illuminating darkness." My vulnerability, once offered up, has focused the eyes of others. And in turn, the stories of the writers around me have ascended like "vapors of inspiration," their spirit an offering that continually renews my own.

This past year, "the fire of passions" has indeed swept through me. It has consumed old fears and germinated new growth. My forest of doubt has been blackened, yes, but from its ashes, new life has sprung.

Writing, sharing, connecting — these acts of creative fire have fertilized my inner being, tempered my resolve, and ripened my understanding of both myself and others. As I stand here now, I realize that in learning to write myself free, I've also learned to burn brightly, unafraid of my own light.

And as the journey continues, I'll be grateful for every spark.

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