The Ceremony
We pass the paper bag around our circle here at the playground just before dark. Holding this repository gently, we murmur a few words as we share a nightly ritual.
To some this may look like juvenile mischief—the beginnings of addiction—but I remember it differently. To me it was an awakening, a stirring of desire and curiosity. To me it was a time when I was clear about what I needed. To me it was the spark of self-love.
Our collective memory differs as to the purpose of the bag. Instead of sipping, we tossed into the bag our fears—spoken, written on pieces of paper—sometimes spit violently into the container.
This is where paper bags come in handy—they’re portable, temporary, practical—I’ve even seen them used as kindling. As we shared our written or spoken terrors, we let them go into the crackling blaze.
The first line of the Prologue of my novel, Paper Bags: I keep my fears in a ledger tucked away in a paper bag.
Not so easy today to throw our fears in a bag and light them on fire. The ceremony, initiated by a teacher, meaningful at thirteen, pales in the face of today’s reality. At the time we thought naming what we were afraid of and then burning it kept it at bay. We watched as our terrors went up in smoke and felt relief.
In the hope naming our fears helps us release them—
I'd need a damn big paper bag -- maybe a few of those leaf bags the home stores sell in the fall -- but this is an appealing idea.
I will need two bags… I was doing pretty well until… but I won’t get political here.
For those who haven’t read Paper Bags, do. It’s a wonderful, gutsy book!