the shadow at play

If you were a warning sign, what sign would you be?

Mine would say spontaneously combustible, because that’s how my shadow shows up—raw, volatile, impossible to ignore. My shadow isn’t a secret lurking in the dark; it’s a flashing neon blaze.

Spontaneous combustion occurs when substances with low ignition temperatures begin to release heat through oxidation, fermentation, or some other means.

I definitely am at higher risk of combusting when fermentation is involved. Any sort of alcohol will do, for “wine is a mocker and strong drink a brawler,” as it says in Proverbs.

When a low-ignition temperature substance begins to heat up and the heat can’t escape quickly enough, the temperature continues to rise, eventually reaching the ignition point. If enough oxygen is present, BOOM! Houston, we have liftoff!

Besides spontaneously combusting humans, other materials most likely to spontaneously combust include haystacks, grain dust inside metal silos, coal, boiled linseed oil, and pistachio nuts.

This propensity for sudden ignition isn’t just a quirk of chemistry—it’s a pretty good metaphor for how my shadow self works. Not a roaring blaze or flashing neon sign, but more like a slow, simmering heat that builds quietly beneath the surface until it finally bursts out. It’s not always visible, and it’s definitely not politie, but it’s undeniably part of who I am. The kind of combustibility that feels like passion, stubbornness, and a hint of danger—all mixed together in a way that sometimes catches even me off guard.

Clearly, giving me pistachio nuts for Christmas would be a terrible idea—unless, of course, your goal was to kill me.

I wasn’t always so combustible. In fact, I remember the first time I truly lost my temper: I was 21 years old. Since then, I’ve combusted more than a few times. But my particular brand of combustion doesn’t usually stem from anger—it’s rooted in passion.

Moral provocation is my kindling; I’m a crusader at heart. This fiery streak makes me a compelling public speaker, a fierce advocate, a cause-driven writer, and a mother not to be trifled with. Astrologers say it has something to do with Mars—the war planet—blazing through my birth chart. One even told me that shocking events don’t just happen to me; I either spark them or pull them in like a magnet.

In other words, I’m no victim.

My combustibility—my passionate attachment to principles—annoys even me sometimes. I’m all about integrity until I’m the one crossing the line. Then I develop a sudden fondness for moral blind spots. Like a baby playing peek-a-boo under a blanket, I convince myself that if I can’t see my own behavior, no one else can either.

I’d love to be perfect. Failing that, I’d settle for being flawed in a poetic or mystical way—Van Gogh with his missing ear, or a saint whose stigmata require daily fresh bandaging. But no. I’m flawed in a bitchy way, and I see no signs of softening with age. If anything, I’m ripening into it.

I’ve regularly asked God, “Why didst Thou make me thus?” I certainly wouldn’t have created someone this passionate without assigning her a Great Calling—something like leading France to victory in the Hundred Years’ War, or refusing to give up her seat on a segregated bus, or sewing the first American flag while going blind from candlelight. But no such calling has arrived, and so I remain—fiery, opinionated, and largely surplus to historical requirements. I feel fatally flawed in the most inconvenient way.

That said, now that I’m grown and have suffered just enough to acquire some perspective, I can see a few merits to being myself. My personality—prickly as it is—has been unusually well-suited to the messes and miracles of motherhood and marriage. I’ve done a good job in those roles—maybe not always with grace, but certainly with heart. I’m no June Cleaver, that’s for sure.

When I catch myself at my worst—at my most inconvenient—I want to apologize to my loved ones simply for being myself. If I were just a little nicer, I might come off as saintly. But as it stands, I’m a confusing blend of big-hearted and pig-headed, part hearth-warmer, part arsonist. I sometimes wonder what people will say at my memorial service. What, in all honesty, could they say?

She was passionate but pig-headed, a true Taurus through life on her own terms. She did everything she wanted to do, even if she wasn’t always proud of it. Loving, loyal, good, and kind—she just wasn’t very nice.

She was spontaneously combustible, making her dangerously unpredictable around alcohol, haystacks, and pistachio nuts.

RIP Eve

I think that would about cover it.