As I described in earlier writing, as a girl I had an imaginative alter ego who I simply named Barbara Cowboy. Her existence in my imagination and play took place decades before the theory and language of current day Feminism and Spiritually were formed. And Her story continues….

She had the gift of making fire. I have never seen anything like it. I would gather whatever I could find, often hastily constructed into a loose mound. It did not matter what the fuel was made of, stones piled in mud topped with a handful of green leaves, dry sticks and grass, wet twigs, frozen pine cones, algae strands collected from a slow running creek. Barbara Cowboy carried a source of heat deep, deep inside Herself. Like a coal stored deep in the ashes of the world, kept bright, smoldering.

I noticed that She never seemed to get cold, even when the temperatures dropped, and sleet blew in horizontal streaks across a landscape. She did not own a coat, or heavy skin to drape over her back. Her only cover was a serape-like blanket in colors of ochre, with striations of green, blue and white interwoven in colorful rows. I would often watch her unfurl it from a pouch in her saddle bags, throw it around her shoulders like a market shawl and throw me a quick grin and a wink as She wandered ahead leading her horse. In the most inclement weather, her hands were warm, downright toasty. Raindrops and snowflakes would dissipate on her skin, and rise like clouds of vapor to the heavens. Internal heat, always present, always warming. Never too hot or too cool. She made fire-tending look as easy as taking a breath.

In some spiritual teachings, the hands are identified as having the gift to begin and end all sorts of manifestation in this world. With our left hand, we receive what the universe offers us, and with our right hand we release or send these gifts to others and the world. I often witnessed Barbara Cowboy extend her right hand to make fire. She did not seek to receive anything from the world to make fire. She used what was inside herself, her internal flame, and would merely reach out to gift it to whatever fuel lay before her hand. Be it dung, waste wrappings, improbable fuel choices….it didn’t matter. A heat would be released and ignition … the bright flames of transformation would rise. Without effort, simply and freely given. Simply by using INTENT to give to herself the warmth she needed.

Build your campfire and throw onto it your personal garbage, limited self perceptions, feelings of not being seen or heard. Throw your sense of unworthiness on top of it all and reach out your right hand. Release your heat, buried beneath the ashes of your world. It’s there, believe you me. Release your fire as a gift to the universe and watch the flames of your own transformation reach to the sky above. Then turn around and walk your path with your left hand held high. Let out a whoop!