I See Fire

On the first Sunday of March, I was finishing up a day of writing. It was a sweatshirt-on-my-couch-with-my-laptop-and-multiple-cups-of-coffee kind of day. With thirteen days to a deadline, I teetered between stress and self-care, apropos for telling the story of my “Best Life Fair” for a chapter in a book titled, Addressing the Climate Crisis For Transforming Schools and Communities. 

“Working on the premise that when we are well, we are better able to protect our environment, students embark on a quest to answer the driving question: What skills and knowledge do we need to create a healthier, happier, more sustainable world?”

The clock had not yet sprung forward and my writing corner was dark. My laptop cast a lonely light on my last, precious weekend hours. Bulleted notes morphed into paragraphs, and my word count crept closer, closer to the maximum, and then passed it without an end in sight. In other words, I wasn't feeling especially well.

Thanks to Rob, chili was on the menu, but I arrived at the table with my brain still wading through words. Squinting at the week’s horizon ahead, I couldn’t make out the shapes or colors before me; my to-do list was as much a blur as the bottle of hot sauce in front of my plate.

The bottle had a swing top––its metal lever and a rubber gasket kept the stopper nice and snug. Pretty nice engineering for a condiment container, but that was beside the point.

As I maneuvered the latch up and over, I perceived a gurgling in my palm. Looking down to investigate, the bottle hissed and––pop! Red hot sauce exploded and washed over my eyes with the force of a fire hose, peeling back my eyelids to reach the furthest crevices of the sockets. Doubled over, I was blinded.

“I can’t see!” I cried, my eyes squeezed shut. Rob reached out; I slapped back. This acidic affliction would not be calmed by a gentle hand. With one arm over my face and the other swinging before me, I stumbled to the sink, nearly toppling glass bottles and bowls atop the counter in my path.

Cold water did nothing to quell the heat at first. Bragan passed me a dishcloth to soak and press, soak and press, but no relief.

“Get me some milk!” I demanded. When my home remedy idea was met with skepticism, I screamed, “Just Google it!”

Finally, I opened my eyes wide under running water for several minutes, a blessed baptism to exorcise viscous demons in my head. At last, I dared to twist the faucet off and blink away any remaining peppery oil, newly anointed by the experience.

Rob and Bragan reached out again, and I accepted their hugs.

For years, March has been the time for slicing—whimsical moments, momentous reflections, bursts of momentum. Since my gaze was temporarily shifted toward a different genre, I had to set this jarring event aside for later. 

Now here I am. I met my deadline, I feel better, and I can see.

Whether we’re looking for it or not, the world sizzles with the heat of a habanero. I’m back for the rest of March to write about it.