And It Was Not Consumed
I burned some garden rubbish yesterday. It was the first time since I left home. Fancy that. Been married 13 years. Lived on two islands and a continent, three different cities. And this is the first time I’ve done the Great Kiwi Burn-Up.
It’s been about time. The branches, twigs, creeper, rubbish, it’s been piling up for years, between the garage and the fence of the timber yard next door. Talk about a fire hazard! My wife has been threatening to call in the rubbish removal people, to get a skip. But I don’t want to spend money on rubbish. Goes against the grain, especially when cash is tight.
I was going to burn up last November. I went into the council offices on the third, to ask about the rules for burning rubbish. “It’s a total fire ban”, She says. “You should read the Public Notices in the newspaper. Then you would know. I always read them.” How long? “Until the First of April”. Well, I try to be law-abiding. I guess my fire hazard stays.
But now it’s April. We still need to tidy up. The council brochure says I must use an incinerator, not burn on the ground. I wonder if that’s law or advice? The factory owners had a bonfire on the vacant lot behind us, and smoked us. But I’ll try to obey the law. Where can I get an incinerator?
On Easter Sunday I get an inspiration. I take my son and we drive around the unbuilt wasteland at the edge of the industrial area that backs onto our property. Maybe someone will have abandoned an old drum. I find plenty of gorse, and a lot of rubbish. Then - near the two abandoned cars - I spy a drum. It’s a bit bent, but hey it’s got holes in it and, whoops, I tip out some ashes. So someone has abandoned their old incinerator in the wasteland and it was there just waiting for me! I wonder why they abandoned it. Maybe they get a skip. As I put it in the car, the drum reminds me of the empty tomb.
Before lighting my fire I decide to do the right thing. I phone the council Environmental Helpline. Are there any restrictions on incinerators? The man on the other end of the line sounds unhappy. “An incinerator must be at least 5 metres from the nearest building, and at least 3 metres from any boundary. And it must not produce any smoke.”
Well I’m lucky. X marks the spot in my backyard that meets the rules. Though just to be sure, I won’t measure it exactly. But I’m not quite sure how one has an incinerator that doesn’t produce any smoke? I’m sure glad they haven’t banned fires altogether.
I light some newspaper and old payslips, along with twigs and wood. It’s a good day to burn rubbish. Being Easter, the neighbours are all away, making use of the holiday weekend. And there is just a gentle breeze, blowing towards the vacant land behind us. A great place for the non-smoke.
I watch the flames. I stand and think about the raw power turning substance into air. I don’t see much of that in my day job. There’s not much time for anything. I rush about all day, reading printed material, and writing things to be printed. The closest I come to a flame is the light on my computer monitor, or the spark plug in my car. But a real flame actually changes something.
I add some more twigs. Nothing much happens, then there is a surge of flame and the twigs shrivel to ash. The logs turn black.
When the ancients offered sacrifices to God, they did it as burnt offerings. It never occurred to me before to ask why? But I think I know now. It makes sense. The solid is being converted to air. The physical connects to spirit, to God. The flame celebrates and consumes, in an orange-red dance. I can see why they offered to God by fire.
I tap the twigs. I poke the branches. But the fire has its own time. Unlike a bonfire, you can’t put much into an incinerator at once. You have to wait for it to burn down. I wonder if this is a council stratagem to discourage backyard burn-ups by making it tediously long.
If so, it hasn’t worked on me. I feel relaxed as I stand and wait. I can imagine myself born three or five generations ago. Then it might have been my job to feed a fire all day, to stand and watch, and in my spare time to gather and cut wood and clear the ashes. Reading would have been a Sunday luxury, and the drudge work of today would be a game, an entertainment, a diversion from the solid stuff of life. I think of how things are so busy.
I blow the ashes through a metal pipe. Handy pipe that. It was once part of a child’s paddling pool. I rescued it four years back, from a skip outside a neighbour’s house. I think about “The Instant Generation”. We don’t fix, we toss. Then get a new one. The old is out of sight, and mind. We get the council to remove our rubbish. Get a skip. A bit like religion, really. Someone died? Call for the undertaker. Wheel out the religion. And our problems are taken away, to the great Transfer Station. No, that’s too cynical. We all need a hand at times. But do we ever have time to sort through our own rubbish. To see what’s salvageable. They say you can learn a lot about a person from their rubbish.
I watch and wait and add fuel. My children play in a tree nearby. With difficulty I keep persuading them to stay a safe distance from the flames. My third child says, “Daddy I can see the fire in your eyes.” I suppose she means my glasses, of course.
My dad was a third child, of six. He was a butcher before he became a Methodist minister. He had his feet on the ground. So did my grandfather, a farmer. They knew how to deal with rubbish – and with death. They died before this city council even existed, let alone its rules. Of course, they had different opinions to me. A slightly different faith, but we connect.
I wonder what my grandchildren will think, when their mother tells them I burned up rubbish in my backyard. Will they be shocked that it was still legal? Horrified that I wasn’t “greener”? Will they wince and say “He lived in ignorant times”? I’d like to think that they’ll be keen on do-it-yourself. That they’ll connect with me. But maybe they’ll live in a concrete and glass box. And if they have a garden, pay someone else to trim their trees into pre-paid boxes, and not give it a second thought.
I stir the ashes. I think about the church. Some claim it will die out in this century. I don’t think so. I certainly hope for my children and grandchildren. But then, I’m a guy who burns up rubbish in his back yard, and thinks about the spiritual significance of fire. Maybe there’s not too many of us. Especially with the rush of life, convenience, TV. A whole virtual world to explore. And maybe society will make it harder for those who stubbornly stick to Christianity and believe it has some power with God. The church is becoming as popular as an old drum in an industrial wasteland.
I watch the flames in my drum. I think about the Presbyterian motto Nec Tamen Consumbatur ("Nevertheless" Moses’ burning bush "was not consumed"). It's a powerful image. A flame that lights and transforms, from solid to spirit, and yet by a miracle the living tree is not destroyed. I try to pray, but just being there seems to outword words.
Monday morning. I'm making breakfast. My youngest child comes in and chirps excitedly. "Daddy, your fireplace. It’s still there. Your fire is still there. Your fire is still there." Just so.
- © 2000, Barry McDonald , Albany, NZ.
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