This Is the Fire That Remembers

Instructions for breathing in a dying world.

Image by author. Made with Canva. No AI.

Beneath the black-boned branches and blood-colored sky, we find ourselves suspended between all that has been lost and all that longs to be born.

The moon bears witness. The stars blink like ancient eyes, and somewhere amid the ash and ember, a raven hovers like an impossible symbol of both death and change. Even now, there is a hum underneath the stillness. A pulse in the void. A whisper through the trees.

You are not alone.

We are the ones walking the edge. We must carry the grief of a world unraveling in one hand and the blueprint of the new in our other one. We are the ones with soot in our lungs and seeds in our pockets.

Maya Luna says, sacred rage = ferocity + bliss. I believe her. I believe in the sacredness of the ones who feel too much, who grieve without shame, who scream without apology. I believe in the fire that doesn’t just destroy, but also clarifies. Transmutes. Purifies.

Some days we get swallowed whole by despair. It’s hard to move underneath the pressure of seeing so much pain. And some nights, like this one, we stand in the glow of a red sky and remember that despair is not the end of the story. Death is not a failure — it is an initiation. An invitation.