Pouring Tea on the Fire

There is no great escape except the one you're in -- or the one you make

Note: this post goes out to Facebook commenter John Christensen, who let me know what he’d like to hear about. If you’d like to suggest a topic or make some headway in an area of your journey, comment below, or email controlledburn@jeremyfiebig.com.

John says, “The great escape. Curious of your perspective on what life looks like when all of your daily existential responsibilities are stripped away and you're able to enjoy the world around you. And perhaps a few tips on getting to that point.”

Here we go.

What if there is no escape?

Thich Nhat Hanh, Buddhist monk, mystic, and contemplative, has a turn of phrase that goes something like “drink your tea when you drink your tea.” He means don’t be elsewhere. Be here. Sometimes the phrase is shortened to a shorthand: drink your tea. I find there to be a great potential for snarky-but-kind-hearted humor in that. Sitting across from an overly verbal, anxiety ridden friend who is wondering what comes next in their lives? Drink your tea. And encourage them to drink theirs. Having lived in the South for a good part of my life, “drink your tea” may come out of my mouth with the same tonality and cadence as “bless your heart.” Go with it.

Thich Nhat Hanh goes further.

“If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nuisance, then we are not “washing the dishes to wash the dishes.” What’s more, we are not alive during the time we are washing the dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life while standing at the sink. If we can’t wash the dishes, the chances are we won’t be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the cup of tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future—and we are incapable of actually living one minute of life.” — The Miracle of Mindfulness (affiliate link)

On one level, I think we’re called to live lives where there is no “great escape.” As I look back over the last two weeks of my own life since I last posted something here, I remember it being consumed with teaching, search committees, event planning and prep, production casting, a bajillion service-oriented emails to members of my University community, and preparing a conference paper. Even today, I’m mixing this missive in with a concert presentation tonight, looking at marketing a concert this Wednesday, preparing for conference travel next weekend, holding some space for an upcoming retreat, and sneaking in time to work on our University’s fall production. There has been no escape and may not be one to speak of.

Your life, and John’s may be like this. There are always grocery lists and kid pickups. Or whatever is your thing. For me, the best way forward is the present way forward — the great inscape, you might say. Wash the dishes. Drink the tea. Write the paper.

What if there can be an escape?

The Brief Yet Infinite Pause

Imagine an evening where the to-do list is blank or can be set aside, where no one needs you to be anywhere or do anything. The chores are done, the kids are looked after, and work is momentarily at rest. What you're left with is a vacuum. It's a vacuum filled with potential, a space where you're free to just "be."

Side note: a lot, lot, lot of folks are scared to death of that vacuum, that space to just be. That’s why they were busy in the first place. We’ll talk about that particular addiction another time.

In this pause, you might find yourself indulging in simple pleasures—a walk when the light changes in the evening, sips of a good wine, some pages in a good book. Maybe you'd find something to draw. Maybe you’d clean your room. Or perhaps you’d take the evening to lie in a hammock, gazing up at the sky like I have recently started to do. Granted, this endeavor is not as poetic as it sounds. I’m surrounded by the “hey, hey, hey” barks of no less than eight neighbor dogs, a bat flying overhead, and the last cloud of mosquitos yet to give out to the cold weather.

What’s important is that in this pause, you are wholly there. The freedom in the “great escape” we speak of isn't just a freedom from something; it's a freedom to something—to explore, to wonder, to simply exist in a state of presence. No guilt, no looming tasks—just you and the world around you.

Please, for the love of God, do not live on your phone or television during these times unless what you’re consuming is something that can reasonably be called good art. I have my reasons: creativity — whether made or consumed — is part of my ground of being. It is how you come back to yourself.

The Art of Temporary Release

The thought of such a pause might be enticing but also intimidating. How do you create this space? A few tips to guide you:

1. Anticipate and Plan: Much like you'd plan a vacation, think a week ahead. Consider scheduling this pause as you would any important meeting.

2. Delegate and Communicate: Let those around you know you'll be taking this time for yourself. Delegate responsibilities so the world can turn without you, even if just for a bit.

3. Set Boundaries: Turn off notifications, leave the phone in another room, and establish a space where you are unlikely to be disturbed.

The Great Inscape Meets The Great Escape

In a way, this brief escape doesn't stray far from what I've been advocating all along. Whether you’re knee-deep in responsibilities or momentarily free of them, the focus remains the same: presence. If you’re washing the dishes, wash the dishes. If you’re savoring a quiet evening, then wholly savor that experience.

And as we come back from these temporary escapes, we bring that renewed sense of presence into our day-to-day lives. We find it easier to drink our tea, wash our dishes, and write our papers. Through the great escape, we refuel for the great inscape.

So, to John and everyone else feeling the tug of existential responsibilities, consider giving yourself the gift of a brief yet infinite pause. Even a single evening of unburdened existence can offer not just a respite but a touchpoint—a reminder of the life that is always available to us when we choose to be fully present.

Pouring Tea on the Fire

Yeah, but, like how?

“Choose to be fully present,” he says. Whatever that means. “I’m not a meditator.” “I’m too busy.” “My mind doesn’t work like that.” “I have responsibilities.” “This is uncomfortable.” “This feels like self-help nonsense.” I hear you.

In my book, Controlled Burn (affiliate link), I put it like this: sometimes — in fact, most of the time — we need help to clear the space in our lives and then do something meaningful with it. That is by design. We require community. Other people, other beings, other ecosystems, even other versions of ourselves.

The “Bonfire Experience” I talk about in the book is a way to do this — a way to metabolize the weight of our responsibilities, be they seasonal, weekly, or even daily. The Bonfire Experience is intentional, communal, and necessarily disorienting.

The Alchemy of the Bonfire Experience

Imagine your responsibilities as logs piling up. Each one, if left unattended, starts to consume your space and limit your vision. You know you can’t just let them sit there; something has to give. The Bonfire Experience is akin to setting a controlled fire to that pile. It's not about shirking responsibilities but transforming them.

Here's how that works:

Physical Removal and its Metabolizing Effects

When you take yourself out of your everyday environment, you essentially create distance between you and the piled-up logs of responsibilities. This distance doesn’t make them disappear, but it allows you to see them for what they are: fuel. Fuel that can power you, rather than weigh you down.

Shaping Space and Rethinking Responsibilities

By reshaping a space meaningfully, you're not just engaging in an aesthetic exercise. You’re showing yourself that change is possible and manageable. When you return to your daily life, you may find that some of those logs have now turned into kindling, easier to handle and fit into the larger picture of your life.

Immersion and Focus

When you immerse yourself in the experience, shutting off distractions, you give yourself permission to metabolize—to convert those piled-up logs into something useful. Emotional energy, creative ideas, or even just a better perspective on what truly matters.

The Transformative Power of Sitting

Sitting quietly removes the sense of urgent "doing" and shifts you toward "being." It allows the metabolic process to continue, converting existential weight into a serene sense of existence, untethered by immediate demands.

Burning as a Purging Act

Lighting that metaphorical bonfire is the climax of the metabolizing process. It symbolizes release, transformation, and renewal. When you 'burn,' whether that's through creative expression or simply by fully enjoying the moment, you are essentially using up the fuel, converting it into light, warmth, and eventually, ashes that enrich the soil for future growth.

Storytelling as Integration

Telling stories is how we integrate our experiences into our lives. These stories help us make sense of what we’ve metabolized. They take the light and warmth of the bonfire and turn them into lasting narratives that sustain us long after the flames have gone out.

Using What You Have as a Grounding Mechanism

Finally, using what you have at hand—your existing resources (including the people and beings and stuff around you)—serves to remind you that even in the midst of existential weight, you have everything you need to metabolize your situation effectively.

Doing these things is a way of getting to know yourself, the way you do on a solo trip or in meditation or when you are actively learning something good.

Tea for (at least) Two

When you think of escaping the cycle of relentless doing and lean into the presence of being, don't just envision a solo venture. Picture a community around you, each person bringing their own kindling, their own stories, and their own presence to the bonfire. Realize that each time you work on metabolizing your personal challenges through a focused practice of presence, you're also contributing to the collective capacity for joy, resilience, and meaningful engagement.

At the end of the day, or the week, or the season, that’s the most beautiful thing about life: you never have to do it alone. The 'great escape' John asked about is neither an escape from the world nor a solitary quest. It’s a move towards a more authentic, joyous, and connected experience of the world—an experience best shared with others.

So go ahead. Wash those dishes. Drink that tea. Tell those stories. But remember, when you do it in good company, you're not just fanning the flames of your own fire; you're contributing to a blaze that can warm an entire community.

Tiny Sanctuaries

While creating bonfire experiences—either solo or in community—offers a way to step back from the churn of daily life, there's something more profound at work here. This practice of deliberate presence isn't just about creating oasis moments that sustain us for a day, week, or season; it's also about forging a pattern, a habit of presence that can infuse even the most mundane activities.

Think of it as training for your spiritual and emotional muscles. Just as a musician doesn't merely perform but also practices, your episodes of orchestrated presence become rehearsals for life's unscripted moments. Over time, these 'rehearsals' begin to infiltrate your everyday reality. Suddenly, you find that you don't have to wait for the next planned escape to practice presence. You start to discover tiny pockets of sanctuary in the routine—the first sip of morning coffee, the feel of your feet on the ground, the smile you share with a stranger or a loved one.

This becomes a kind of presence spiral, a continuous feedback loop where each moment of awareness feeds into the next, making each subsequent moment richer and more textured. Your capacity to metabolize life’s demands through this engaged presence increases, not just during designated 'breaks' but also amid the whirl of responsibilities. You find that you can 'drink your tea' even when time is tight and demands are high.

So, the next time you find yourself thinking, "I don't have time to be present," remember: You've been training for this. Your bonfires—both personal and communal—have been your practice ground. Now, life is inviting you to play your well-rehearsed piece, to bring the gift of your full attention to this very moment, however ordinary it may seem. And as you do, you not only enrich your own experience but also elevate the world around you, one moment of presence at a time.