The Sun of Fire in You: A Regime of Renewed Meaning

Could I do it?

There was a little over half a mile left in the race and I knew that I was not in the top fifteen, where I needed to be in order to advance to states. Per usual, I started the race slow, and picked up my pace after the first mile. But I worried, between the back to back hills I was not used to, the pressure of this being regionals, the weight of being captain, and it being my senior year—would I be able to make it, again? The thoughts of disbelief racing through my mind began to feel heavier than my tightening and burning legs; my inner tower of encouragement was collapsing with each stride. I was straining to see how, to remember what was possible.

And that’s when I heard her voice, You got this D.J., pick up the pace baby. Dig. Come on. You’ve come too far to quit now.

—

I was laying in an A-frame cabin, tucked away in the woods. The rain was coming down violently, but I found it soothing. I looked to my left, I could faintly still see flickers of the fire I had built and lit—despite it raining for nearly twenty minutes already. I rubbed my feet together, curling the blanket around my toes—for some reason, doing this reminds me of my late grandmother. I had never noticed how beautiful lightning was against the dark sky. Even the thunder that intermittently disrupted the sounds of the rain hitting the makeshift cabin, was offering me peace. When we were kids, staying down at my Grandma Brenda’s, we’d have to sit still. No one move. Be quiet. Stop playing., my Grandma would bark. Lord forbid the phone rang and you attempted to answer it. Thunderstorms, back then, down there, felt as if the world were coming to an end. Everything had to be turned off and unplugged in the house, which I understood. But why couldn’t we talk? I chuckled, thinking about the fear that inspired us to be still then. The glass panel allowed me to see the surrounding trees. They were rocking, swaying back and forth—as if they too were being reassured by the storm. Despite my solitude, in the middle of the woods, I felt at home. I turned the page of the book I was reading, Clytemnestra:

“Her father watching her first fight in the gymnasium. She was six and shy, but his presence gave her strength. ‘People aren’t always as strong as they look,’ he had told her. ‘Strength comes from many different things, and one of those is purpose.’ She had won the fight, and he had given her a brief smile.”

—

I was sitting with my legs crossed, clicking the heel of my boot against the chair. Two of our 3:20 Scholarship alumni had joined me at the senior banquet, I was sitting between them. I could feel the stares of the seniors—I wondered what they saw, what they were thinking. I glanced over the words I had written, less than three hours before. I’d already read them umpteen times, doing my due diligence to hopefully read them without fumbling and from a place of passion and confidence. As we got closer to the part of the program where community members would present, I felt myself slowly growing anxious. A wave of warmth washed over me. I slid down in my chair. I needlessly repositioned my bracelets and twisted my rings around my finger. I caught a glimpse of the latter part of my speech. Today, I don’t see or relate to what I went through during my undergraduate career the same way—I no longer see it as a story of pain and adversity…I see it as a platform…as purpose.

I straightened my spine in the chair. I put both feet firmly on the ground. Keep your light on, I told myself. Keep. Your. Light. On.

The Principal made her way to the podium: We will now have our presentations of community scholarship awards, starting with The 3:20 Scholarship, Dr. Darrien Jamar.

—

I crossed the finish line that day in 14th place. I needed Mrs. Wilson’s voice that day. I needed her in every race.

What I realized, standing at the podium, looking out into the eyes of a hundred+ seniors, is that I no longer need Mrs. Wilson’s voice, I’d found my own. When I need encouragement, when I need a light to guide me, when I need to quiet the storm of anxiety and fear within me—I am the voice I hear.

You are being called into the abundance of your life, of your story, of now. You are being called to benefit from the pregnancy of your healing journey, of how you have grown through the depths of your awareness. You don’t have to lose yourself to every storm, you can not only live through it—but it’s possible to be sustained by your inner peace while it passes. It’s possible to relate to the storms of life in a new way.

Back then, I ran each race for me. I ran because I was running after someone, I was running to find a person I had lost touch with long ago. I resonated with Mrs. Wilson’s voice because, in reality, she was speaking for me…she was me speaking through her. She was my parents, who were missing from the sidelines of every race. And 14 years later, I have become the parent that I needed then, and the one who supports me now.

Sift through your past. Look high and low, casting your light from different angles. Look under every place for hidden meanings, for anything that might still be existing under the old regime of trauma and doubt. It’s time that the meaning of your story shifts. Renewal comes from a shift in perspective, born by being freed from the old story and being welcomed by new meaning. How you make meaning of your past will determine how you grow from it. Everyone you need is now inside of you. Renew your heart and mind to the abundance of this relationship: to the stadium of support you have built within yourself. You are ready to rise into the larger purpose of your story, for the good of the collective.

—

The next morning—just before leaving the A-frame cabin, I was in a standing meditation, praying, when a ladybug landed on my face. As it flew away, it led me to a beautiful, fragrant garden of mint.

No longer needing to yell, encouragement and inspiration has turned to subtle whispers. I brought my hands to my heart, grateful for the ways Mrs. Wilson had helped me find my voice, but also, for teaching me how to hear…to listen, to receive, and to ultimately, be guided.