Disappearing act

My Phoenix is a fickle thing. So strong and determined, yet so able to vanish without trace when I need her most. How easily, at times, her embers can be fuelled into a rage of flames by just the slightest whisper of a breath. The mightiest of mothers, fiercest of friends, most loyal of lovers or defender of the desperate can rise from that heart of hearths.

But sometimes, when I find myself flung into the most shadowy corner of a dank grotto in winter, I cannot summon her for love, money, nor a waxy firelighter. (Catnip to her soul. Note: I ate part of a firelighter when I was a mere smattering of a little thing, while listening to my Wizard of Oz LP. Even now I can’t pause to smell them without wanting to tarry awhile and nibble.)

I am seeking to learn from this. Embrace her absence. Perhaps she is silent so that I can fuel my voice. Lessen my oscillations. Fine-tune my reverberations. Turn away from the inner shouting that can make me feel so worthless and insubstantial. But how I wish I could summon her. Some of her heat would burn away the grip of the creeping dank tendrils of clawing doubt that assails me. 

Perhaps I’m looking for her in the wrong place? Must I start manifesting to reach her presence? So help me god, no. Perhaps I need to stare into the face of the cold and know that the weeds will slink away soon enough. Perhaps there is a magic potion I could acquire. How can she come and then be gone with such frequency and ease?

Today, I muse upon these things. In a steamy orange-lit coffee house where everyone is coughing. 

Note to self: firefighters and fireflighters were produced by my autocorrect. I could have some fun with these.