What the Flame Teaches

The flame does not mourn the wood it consumes—it becomes light

There is something holy about the way fire teaches. It consumes with no apology, no restraint, and in doing so, it does not simply destroy—it transforms. There is something in us that wants to be the flame, but we fear the cost: the loss of the structure we once were, the certainty of form, the memory of being whole before ignition.

We speak often of growth as something soft, something nurturing. But the flame teaches otherwise. It teaches that growth may be combustion. That to evolve, we must let parts of ourselves burn—relationships, beliefs, comforts, even our former selves. The light we become is born of these necessary losses.

Watch the candle. The wax does not survive the flame, and yet its purpose is fulfilled in disappearing. What if our own vanishing is a kind of arrival? What if obliteration is not the end, but the offering?

The flame also teaches presence. It flickers, vulnerable to the winds around it, but it never dims itself in anticipation. It dances even as it dies. And perhaps this is the highest lesson: to be fully alive is not to endure forever, but to burn completely while you can.

So many of us live dimly—afraid to ignite, to consume, to radiate. We hide our inner fires under obligations, compromises, politeness. We store dry wood in our souls, and wonder why we feel cold.

But what the flame teaches is this: 

you must feed on yourself, not endlessly, but purposefully. 

Let the unnecessary become ash. 

Let the pain become fuel. Let the old structures fall, so that light has somewhere to rise.

Burn beautifully. 

Not because it is painless—

but because it is sacred