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:

Meditation for People Who Don't Like to Meditate (pt. 3)

This is the third in a series of posts looking at the challenges people often cite when explaining why they haven't been able to stick with a meditation practice, or who've never started one because they knew they would face these challenges and couldn't imagine a way around them.  On Monday we looked at the issues of "not having enough time" and "physically not being able to sit still that long."  On Wednesday the focus was on the issue of being "too easily distracted."  Today, let's consider the complaint which, it would seem, the younger monk must have just raised with his elder:  "What happens next?"

Is that all that meditation is about?  Sitting on a cushion (or chair) and counting your breaths or saying a mantra over and over again?  Isn't something supposed to happen?  The Buddha, we're told, sat in meditation for seven days under the Bodhi tree, after which he "awakened" and saw through to the depths of reality, the underlying Truth of existence, which he then taught as the Four Noble Truths.  The term "Buddha" means "the awakened one," and there is a story that the Buddha was once walking down a road.  A man he met asked what manner of being the Buddha was -- an angel, a demon, a God, and so on.  The Buddha replied, "I am awake."

This state of "awakeness," of seeing through to the heart of reality, is what most people think of when they think of "enlightenment."  And enlightenment is what most people think is the purpose of meditation.  When asked why they think meditation is important, or something they "should" be doing, folks often say that it will make them more peaceful, more calm, more easy going, more aware, more healthy, etc.  Yet nearly everyone knows that one of the results that's usually claimed for meditation practices is "enlightenment."  Yet whether it's purely for relaxation, or for some kind of spiritual deepening, most people think that meditation is going to do something for them.

Within the Zen tradition(s), at least, doing meditation in order to accomplish or achieve something is to fundamentally misunderstand the practice of meditation.  In fact, one might say that the extent to which you practice in order for something to happen, the less you are truly meditating.  As the senior monk in the cartoon says, "Nothing happens next.  This is it."  The purpose of sitting on your cushion, it's been said, is to sit on your cushion.  Nothing else.

There's a wonderful story told about Ludwig van Beethoven.  It is very likely apocryphal, but the story is that after playing one of his piano sonata's at some fashionable soiree, as he did, a woman said, "That was marvelous, Herr Beethoven ... but what did it mean?"  Beethoven is said to have sat down at the piano again and played the piece through one more time.  When he was finished, he looked at the woman and said, "That, Fraulein, is what it means!"

The Thing In Itself.   The music exists for its own sake; it has no meaning or purpose.  It doesn't exist so that ... anything.  It exists because it exists.  I'm put in mind of what the character of God gives to Moses when they meet at the burning bush and Moses asks God's name:  "I am that I am."  (Interestingly, the Hebrew can also be translated as "I was what I was," "I will be what I will be," or any combination.)  In other words, the name, the underlying reality of God, is "is-ness," is existence.  God is, and that's all that matters.

And that's true of us, also.  At least, if you look at life through the lens of in-this-moment mindfulness.  If this moment is really the only moment that exists, then I am not typing these words in order for you to read them.  I'm typing them because I'm typing them.  I'm typing them to type them; there is no other purpose.  If I were typing them so that you could read them, and something goes wrong with my computer and the file is erased, then I would have wasted this moment.  I don't mind if you do read them, of course.  In fact, I hope you will.  But if I am truly living with the awareness that this moment is the only moment, then I can't write them for any other reason than the writing of them.

Now, note that I said, "if you look at life through the lens of in-this-moment mindfulness."  One of the things the Abbot of Zen Mountain Monastery, John Daido Loori, used to say was that when you're sitting in the meditation hall you are aware that all things are interconnected, that nothing exists independent of anything else, that, "you and I are one."  However, he would say, when you're crossing traffic you need to remember that you and the car coming at you are different!

So yes, of course, as I'm sitting here writing this post I am doing so, at least in part, in the hopes that you'll read it, and that there'll be something in here that'll be worth your time.  That is, if you will, the way we look at things in "ordinary time."  Yet just as practicing scales is an exercise a musician does to be able to play their instrument more beautifully, or working out at the gym is a kind of peculiar time set aside to prepare one's body to function more healthfully and effectively, so, too, the time spent in your meditation practice is sort of a time set apart from "ordinary time."  It is, if you will, a time during which you train yourself to be mindful so that, in the moment-to-moment realities of our lives we can be more mindful.

As noted last week, meditation is a four-fold practice:  Focus.  Become Distracted.  Recognize that we've become distracted.  Make the decision to return to our original focus.  While in the middle of doing this practice, there is no reason for doing so except for the doing of it.  If you're doing it in order to become more peaceful, then that intention is, itself, a distraction from the focus on, for instance, counting your breaths.  If you're training yourself to focus only on the thing you've chosen for your focus -- your breathing, a mantra, a candle's flame -- than anything else you bring with you into your time of meditation is a distraction.

It is very likely -- extremely likely, in fact -- that if you engage in a meditation practice (or, for that matter, any spiritual practice) you will experience some "results."  Chances are you will feel more peaceful, calm, serene, relaxed, healthy, focused, etc., etc., etc.  You might even gain enlightenment and see through to the "really real."  Yet during the time you've set aside for meditation, you probably shouldn't feel as though anything is happening.  In that moment, there should only be the sitting.

Pax tecum,

RevWik