Close Enough to Burn: What it Feels Like Playing with Fire

There’s a scene in the original Toy Story film where the troublemaker kid, Sid, positions a magnifying glass in the sunlight over Woody’s head so that the spot between his eyebrows begins to singe. A small stream of smoke rises before Sid gets whisked away by his mom shouting that his Pop Tarts are ready. Then, Woody gets up and runs full speed ahead, dunking his head in a neglected bowl of milk and cereal to soothe the burn.

I’m kind of like Woody. Though, often, the burning is my own doing. 

I’ve never been one to sit far back, away from action and intensity. Nope. Plunk me right into the thick of the aftermath of a monster hurricane. Give me a front row seat to heartache. Put me eye-to-eye with the people at ground zero. Let me feel it, sense it, experience it so I can make my own connections and form my own opinions and learn what I need to know, unfiltered. Not once, but on a rinse and repeat cycle for pretty much all of my adult life. So far, anyway.

Lots of times, intensity helps me thrive. That is, before I realize I’m on fire and—uh oh!—better go dunk myself to extinguish the flames. (Maybe I should try milk next time?)

Let’s start with when things were literally on fire. While deployed to disaster responses, every cell of my body became engaged in the scene, in other people’s stories. I skipped the small talk and ran straight into the raw essence of what makes us human with people whose homes had been reduced to ashes, refugees forced to leave their country, and fellow responders standing atop mountains of debris. But that boundary between their feelings and mine often became blurred and before I knew it, I’d taken on more emotion and care than was mine to carry. So yes, quite literally, I’d spend three weeks following a mission in the bathtub recovering.

Leave it to me to find all the creatures on deployment. Credit: Brad Zerivitz

And it's not just humans. There was the time when all it took was becoming surrounded by eight adult sea turtles one evening in the wild to catapult me into doing anything I could to keep them from vanishing off the earth. Totally dramatic, I know. But that’s how I ended up in chest waders every week helping rehab dozens of endangered sea turtles. The nurturing has helped fill a void caused by the grief of losing my own pup. And over time, feelings of devastation have turned into awe and wonder. But don’t get attached, I told myself at the start.

My first sea turtle patient. Credit: National Aquarium

I especially felt that shift in moods as I touched a gloved hand to a ninety pound loggerhead on my first day. His head felt like a dinosaur’s and my knees nearly buckled at the realization that I was stroking ancient history. So yes, after eight months, of course it was hard to say goodbye as we released him back into the waters of the Chesapeake last summer, watching him do a little spin towards the team–as if waving a thank you—before he cautiously crawled into the waves.

And it wasn’t long ago after watching a groundbreaking pair of documentaries— Secrets of the Elephants and Love and Bananas—that I led myself down a rabbit hole of researching the threats and ethical issues elephants face when it comes to their survival. So you can guess what came next.

Oh no, wasn't enough to read and watch from a screen for this girl. Out came the wallet to buy a plane ticket to Thailand and up rolled the sleeves to immerse myself in a sanctuary I spent hours vetting. As expected, my heart was stolen and the stories I heard bored their way into my bones to stay. Leaving me wondering: what else can I do? Must I do? (Zero pressure, I know.)

I share all this to illustrate that it's true: the closer I get to the heart of an issue, the more I feel captivated by its heat and warmth. And the more it propels me to persist and keep others going, too. 

It also becomes inevitable that I’ll get scarred from the burn.

Because those disaster stories? Some will never leave my blood. 

That first sea turtle I fell for? He didn’t make it. After seven months in the ocean, he washed up last month unresponsive near the shore.

All 7,000 remaining elephants in Thailand? I can’t rescue them all alone.

The soulmate pup? His lifespan was never meant to extend past mine.

But still, I’d rather get close and feel it all than remain so far that my heart never feels a thing. I guess that’s what it means to surrender control when it comes to following what makes us come alive. Because sometimes the heart grows. Sometimes it shatters. But always, it morphs beyond the shape it was before, leaving a reminder of what it feels like to love. P.S. I'm cooking up what's next when it comes to helping the endangered animals of our world--now that you know I can't stay away! Join my email list if you aren't a subscriber already to stay in the loop.