Lessons From (and for) The Circus of Life: Fire Eating

Shade Flamewater

I was taught to eat fire by an ordained Methodist minister, the Rev. Margie Brown.

The 1970s and 80s were the heyday of what was called "the clown ministry movement."  People made use of a variety of performance arts as vehicles for sharing religious messages.  It seemed to me to be most common for Protestants of one sort or another to be involved, although I know that this movement also had adherents among Catholics and Jews as well.

For several years there was an annual event known as The Clown, Mime, Puppet, and Dance Ministry Workshop.  Imagine clowns, mimes, puppeteers, dancers, magicians, ventriloquists, and other folks, taking over a college campus for (as I remember it) a week of workshops, performances, worship services, and more.

It was at one of these workshops that I met Margie.  She was an extremely well-known clown/storyteller, and was a much sought after workshop leader.  She said that she had one condition for accepting an invitation.  In addition to whatever it was she was being paid to do, she requested time each day to teach a fire eating class (which she would do for free).  As a twenty-something at the time, how could I miss something like this?  I signed up for her class right away, and met with her and a handful of other students every morning for a week.

As I've said, Margie was an ordained Methodist minister.  She had learned to eat fire from a Catholic priest, Fr. Ken Feit.  Margie told us that Ken had told her that every religion we humans have ever developed has used fire as one of its sacred symbols.  Also, every religion has some kind of a shared meal as one of its rituals.  It only make sense, then, to eat fire as a religious practice!

Margie taught us how to make our own torches; how to bring the flame into our mouths; how to put it out, or keep some of the vapors in our mouths so that we could breath some fire.  She taught us to never breathe in while the torch was anywhere near our mouths.  And she taught us a bit of wisdom that has stayed with me, and guided me, to this day -- "you always have time to put out your sister's prom dress."

In the context of these Lessons From -- and for -- the Circus of Life, there are two things I'd like to lift up.  It took us a little while before Margie thought we were ready to actually bring the flames near our faces.  (She really did teach us to be safe!)  Several people asked her whether it was going to be hot.  You might think this a rather odd question.  The answer should seem so obvious.  Yet it's one of the first questions people ask me about this art/craft.  Margie's answer was simple, "It depends on what you're expecting."  People who anticipate excruciating pain are usually incredibly surprised -- and relived -- that it's nowhere near as hot as they were afraid it would be.  On the other hand, those who thought it'd be no big deal were generally the ones running for a glass of ice water.  One thing fire eating can teach us, then, is that our expectations are often closely linked to our experiences.

More importantly, though, is what Margie said to us on the last day of our class.  She noted that some of us would keep practicing and maybe go on to perform, while others would never pick up fire eating torches again.  She wanted us all to know -- whatever we did with this new skill from there on out -- that she'd only been teaching us to eat fire to show us something much more important.  I don't know if I remember her words exactly, but this is what has stayed with me.

Whether you eat fire ever again, you've done it now.  And that means you've taken something frightening and dangerous, and instead of running from it you've brought it right up close to yourself.  And by doing this, you've turned it into something beautiful.

That's a lesson worth learning, no?

Pax tecum,

Rev. Wik


One more thing:  about a year or so ago a friend of mine sent me this video.  It blew my mind.  The artist is doing things that I hadn't even known were possible.  I've since reached out to him, and he's not only an amazing performer, but seems to be a really nice guy, too.  And talk about turning fire into something beautiful:

Lessons From (and for) The Circus of Life: Trapeze

Sam Keen -- the author of such books as Fire in the Belly and Your Mythic Journey -- has had a life-long dream of being a trapeze flyer.  It began when he was a child and went to his first circus.  There were all the usual acts, but it was the trapeze artist who most captured his imagination.  He's said that when the flyer let go of his bar to fly to the catcher, in his mind's eye he remained in mid-air.  And he's remained there ever since.  "The Flying Man" became a mythic touchstone for him long before he had those words to describe it.  Yet as with most of us, as he grew up his childhood dream faded into the background of an adult life of family and work.

At the age of 62 he heard an ad on television for the San Francisco School of Circus Arts, inviting ordinary folk to come learn the skills and art of the flying trapeze.  Believing himself too old for such a thing, Keen nonetheless went one night to observe a class.  This was as close as he thought he would come to touching his childhood dream.  The teacher, however, didn't let Keen sit it out on the sidelines, instead prodding him to try.  He did.  He found himself returning the next week.  And the one after that.  Soon a new passion was born, a passion that eventually led to his putting a practice bar in his living room (which had 16' ceilings), and a full rig in his backyard.  It also led to his writing the book Learning to Fly -- trapeze: reflections on fear, trust, and the joy of letting go.

I offered a reflection in February of 2019 to the congregation I serve about some of what I'd learning in my reading of this book.  I am sure that it is only the first of many.  After all, the metaphors of the circus are deep and rich ... and I'd only read about half of the book at the time I wrote that sermon!

Keen's subtitle is a synopsis of several of the spiritual lessons to be found among those who "fly through with the greatest of ease" -- fear, trust, letting go.  Quite literally, being a trapeze artist requires you to learn to let go in spite of a quite reasonable fear of falling if you do.  There's only just a few letters difference between flying and falling.  You could add failing into that mix, too.  We want to fly, but are afraid we'll fail and fall.  Sound at all familiar?

One of the things that trapeze has taught Keen is that it's not only important, it's essential for a flyer to work through the fear of falling.  Whenever you're trying to learn a new trick, you should first practice missing the trick, so that you can learn how to fall safely.  There is, he says,

“a fundamental principle — learn the fall before the trick; prepare for failure.  From the moment when a fledgling accomplishes the first free fall, progress in flying and falling go hand in hand. […] the great flyers have always been great fallers.”

That might sound somewhat counter intuitive at first. Most of us would probably rather put of letting go until we know there'll be someone or something there to catch us or for us to catch ourselves on.  Apparently, though, if you really want to fly you get there by preparing not to be caught, which teaches you that you'l survive the fall.  (If, of course, you've learned how to fall safely, which is a skill in itself.)

Does that sound scary?  Well, maybe it is.  He talks about Isabel Caballero, one of the few women who perform the triple somersault, who has said, "Even after all these years I am afraid all the time.  Every time I climb up on the pedestal I look down and think about how high up it is.  But," she adds, "I love flying more than I fear it."

How do we get there?  How do we get to the place where we can say, honestly, about our own lives, that we love them more than we fear them?  That we love Life -- with all of its inherent challenges ad risks -- more than we fear it?  I'll give Sam Keen the last word:

"We learn to fly not by becoming fearless, but by the daily practice of courage.”

Pax tecum,

RevWik

This is an image from Birds of Prey, Vol 1, #8.  For those who don't follow
the escapades of the Batman and the rest of the "Bat Family,"
this is Dick Grayson (the original Robin and, now Nightwing who was part of
his family's circus flying troupe as a child), and Barbara Gordon (the orignal Batgirl,
who was paralyze when the Joker shot her in the spine, and who became Oracle,
the eyes, ears, and computer wizardry of heroes throughout the DC universe).
When Barbara was complaining about feeling so "earthbound" after losing
the use of her legs (and her life as Battgirl), Dick brought her to the circus to
experience the joy of flying once more.