I stepped out of grief by dancing with fire Danielle Torley
Transcriber: Leslie Gauthier
Reviewer: Camille Martínez
When I was six years old,
our house caught fire,
and my mother died.
It was a cold February night in Michigan.
Our chimney had recently been fixed,
so we had a warm fire going
in the fireplace.
My younger sister and I
were sitting next to our dog
and coloring with a brand-new box
of colored pencils,
when Mom said it was time for bed.
We’d planned to go up north that night
for a weekend of
snowmobiling and sledding,
but it was already dark
and snowing outside,
so we decided to leave
the next morning instead.
We went upstairs, brushed our teeth,
climbed into bed,
my sister’s room right next to the stairs,
and mine at the far end of the hallway.
Our parents tucked us in
and kissed us good night
then left the door open just a crack,
and the hallway light on,
as it always was.
In the middle of the night,
I woke up sweating,
confused because I couldn’t see
that hallway light.
I started shouting for my parents
until finally, I heard words
that I’ll never forget:
“Dave, it’s a fire!”
We later found out
that our fire from earlier
had burned through an unrepaired
crack in the chimney,
causing the fireplace doors to explode
and fire to just pour into
the living room.
I remember my mom running down
to my sister’s room,
frantically searching for her
and finally finding her on the floor.
I crawled after her on my hands and knees,
trying not to breathe in the smoke.
I remember standing
next to my sister’s room,
trying to turn on that hallway light,
but it was already on;
I just couldn’t see it because
the smoke was so thick.
I remember feeling
the heat of the fire on my skin
and hearing the sound of it
as it climbed up the stairs.
My dad ran down to my bedroom window
as an escape route,
but it was February,
and it was frozen shut.
Eventually, he broke the window
and pried it open,
his arms and hands covered
in glass and cuts.
He lifted my sister and me
onto an awning under the window
and told us to shout for help.
Not seeing my mom,
he considered going back
into the fire to find her,
but after looking at my sister and me
huddled together on that roof
and knowing that neither of them
may make it out,
he stayed with us,
calling her name
through the window instead.
After a few minutes,
a man driving down the street
saw the smoke and fire,
drove onto our lawn,
climbed onto the roof of his car
and told us to jump into his arms.
We’d never seen him before,
and even though he saved our lives,
we never saw him again.
We were brought over to a neighbor’s house
while Dad continued to wait
on the roof for my mom,
reaching his arms and hands
through the window
and into the fire,
calling her name over and over.
He said later that when
the fire department arrived,
they carried him down the ladder
just as a lower-level window shattered
and burst into flames.
It took the fire department
longer to find my mom.
She’d been on the floor
of my bedroom the entire time,
pinned down by a dresser
that had fallen on her leg.
We think she went back
to look for our dog,
but by the time the fire department
reached them it was too late.
She died on the way to the hospital.
Dad was in critical condition,
with smoke inhalation and burns
and cuts over a third of his body.
He spent nearly a month in the hospital,
unable to attend Mom’s funeral
and undergoing multiple,
excruciating skin graft surgeries.
My sister and I stayed
with a neighbor across the street,
but we would sit in front
of their living room window for hours,
just staring at the remains
of our burnt home.
After a few days, it became evident
that we would need to go and stay
with some different family friends.
The next few years were tough.
As a single father of two young girls,
Dad did his very best to provide for us
as we all tried to grieve and recover.
We began to move on in this new reality.
Dad bought a new house down the street,
without a fireplace,
and eventually remarried.
My sister and I excelled in school.
I was a cheerleader,
and she rode horses
and played in the band.
But nothing could stop the gut-wrenching
nightmares that haunted me.
I would dream of fire,
of being trapped in fire with no escape.
I remember, and even now I can feel,
the sheer panic
and the pressure in my chest.
Or worse were the dreams where
I was outside the fire watching it,
trying to save the people inside.
I’d wake up gasping for breath,
tears running down my face and sobbing.
When I was 15,
a friend of mine
and a very talented artist,
painted two abstract portraits for me.
One was done in black and white
and depicted a scared girl
cowering in the corner of a room,
shadows surrounding her.
The other was a bursting rainbow of color;
the girl was in the center of the page,
arms open and outstretched,
clearly full of joy and happiness.
He knew my past,
and he knew that I was
conflicted and confused,
but he had also seen my potential
and wanted to show me what he already saw.
After a few years,
I realized that these two portraits
showed two completely different
paths before me:
a life of fear
or the promise and potential for recovery.
I had always been drawn
to that brighter, more colorful painting,
but I wasn’t quite sure
what it meant for me
or how to transform my current mentality
into that kind of joy and happiness.
So outwardly, I moved on with life –
graduated high school, went to college –
while inwardly,
I continued to bounce between
the highest of highs
and the lowest of lows,
like a Ping-Pong ball
between those two portraits.
In 2004, I went backpacking
through Central America with a friend.
We spent our first week
on the island of Roatán,
off the coast of Honduras.
After a few days there,
my friend and I realized
that one of our new local friends
was a fire dancer.
Neither of us had ever seen
fire dancing before,
so one night, we decided to go see a show.
We watched, mesmerized,
as he and two friends
lit these props on fire,
threw them in the air
and spun them around their bodies.
Their moves were
deliberate and controlled,
yet still graceful
and flowing to the music.
I was completely entranced.
The next day, he offered to teach us
how to fire dance, or “spin” –
without fire, of course.
He showed us the difference
between a fire staff,
which is a long piece of wood
or aluminum with two Kevlar wicks,
and fire poi, which are Kevlar wicks
with chains and finger loops.
After that first time spinning poi,
I knew that this was a hobby
that I wanted to continue learning
in the hopes that maybe one day,
I might be brave enough
to try it with fire.
Now, I can guess what
people might be thinking:
How was I not terrified
and running in the opposite direction?
And honestly, I don’t know.
I think that perhaps being a cheerleader
and doing gymnastics and piano
while growing up,
these activities were
very structured and prescribed,
whereas this type of flow art
seemed like a form of meditation
but with a focus on fire,
this thing that scared me
so deeply for my entire life.
After that first time practicing,
my friend and I cobbled together
our own sets of homemade poi
using socks, shoelaces and tennis balls.
We did not light shoelaces
and socks on fire,
we just used it for the practice part.
But after returning home to Michigan,
we decided to buy
our own sets of actual fire poi.
And after a few months,
we decided that we were ready
to light them on fire.
We bundled up in cotton layers,
got a fire extinguisher,
wet a towel for safety,
prepared our fuel,
gave each other a very energetic
pep talk and high five
and lit those poi on fire.
It was terrifying.
Half of my brain was freaking out
and thinking, “OK, wait –
maybe we need to think about this.
We should probably stop.”
The sound of the fire
as it whooshed by my head
was incredibly loud
and brought me right back to my childhood.
But it was also incredibly exhilarating.
The other half of my brain,
the creative half, was thinking,
“I can’t believe it! I’m a fire dancer.”
For anyone who spins,
there’s a level of adrenaline
or that rush of fire dancing.
But as someone whose life
had been so greatly impacted by fire,
I also felt an immense sense
of empowerment
at being able to control
and manipulate fire.
I made a conscious decision
to step out of my grief.
It was not easy.
There’s a Nirvana lyric that says
“I miss the comfort of being sad,”
and that was exactly it.
I was in control of my sadness.
I knew what it would bring to me,
and I knew what to expect,
but I also knew deep down that eventually,
I had to do that really hard work
of trying to heal from my past.
So I kept practicing.
I took a plastic grocery bag,
cut it into strips,
tied it to the ends of those poi
and used it to replicate the sound
of the fire as it went past my head.
And I kept lighting the poi on fire.
At some point, something shifted.
My perspective on fire dancing changed
from something that I was
apprehensive about
to something that brought me
a sort of peace.
Without realizing it,
I had initiated my own form
of exposure therapy,
an actual type of psychotherapy
where you deliberately expose yourself
to things that have caused you trauma
or scare you.
I’d exposed myself to fire
in this very unique way
and had transformed what it meant to me.
My nightmares slowed down
and now, years later,
have stopped almost completely.
I started fire dancing not just for myself
but at events and performances.
I started a fire troop with friends
while living in Dubai,
created beautiful art with my sister
who became a photographer,
taught children how to spin
at birthday parties,
performed onstage and at festivals
and even taught my own children
the basics of spinning.
And that’s not to say
that I don’t still have
an apprehension to fire in general.
I can practice a move a million times,
but then when I try it with fire,
I feel that familiar panic
and tightening in my chest.
I’m still apprehensive about living
in a two-story house
or having a fireplace.
Every night before I go to sleep,
I clear a path between
my kids' bedroom doors,
our bedroom door
and all the exit doors,
in case we need to leave quickly.
And it’s taken me a long time
to get on board with the idea
of closing bedroom doors at night
to slow down a fire,
because I’d always thought if I closed
my kids' bedroom doors,
I might not be able to hear them
like my mom heard me.
And of course, this is my story.
I can’t say that I have the answer
for someone with a different
kind of trauma.
If the situation had been reversed,
and I’d lost a child in a fire,
I’m not sure that fire dancing
would be the answer,
or if I’d even have the capacity
to get near fire again.
But what I can say from my own experience
is that after experiencing
a trauma or hardship,
you have a choice between two paths.
One path will lead you to a life of fear
and cowering in the darkness,
like that black-and-white painting
I described earlier.
You might move on with life,
but at the same time,
you’re still clinging to that sadness
that brings you comfort.
The other path, stepping out of grief,
will not change or undo anything.
It will be hard.
It will always be hard,
with high mountains
and deep, dark valleys.
But this path looks forward
and moves forward.
When I learned to dance with fire,
I learned to reconcile
the traumatic part of my life
with the totality of my life
as it was still unfolding.
Fire became more than just trauma
but beauty and art as well,
everything, all at once, just like life,
flickering and smoldering
and burning and dazzling,
and somehow, in the middle of it,
finding a way to dance …
me.
Thank you.