The Controlled Burn of a Long Marriage
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
“What do you think those are?” I ask, pointing out the window. My husband looks over and shrugs. In the spaces between the trunks of tall trees, piles of wood—no more than three or four feet high—lean into each other lengthwise. It’s as if small children gathered wood for thirty simultaneous bonfires.
My family of six is in a rented van, driving to a trailhead in Bryce National Park. The temperature is in the low 30s and snow blankets the ground. We’re wearing nearly all of the clothes we packed. In an effort to make this trip as educational as possible, I suggest to my kids (who aren’t paying attention to me or the wood piles), “Let’s ask one of the rangers.”
***
Controlled burns, a method for maintaining the health and vitality of forests, are fires lit on purpose. They are also called prescribed burns because just like a doctor who gives a prescription for medication—how much, how often, for how long—forest managers plan prescriptions for these burns in a similar way. Dead and fallen tree debris, grass, and remnants of thinned undergrowth are collected in piles. They’re lit under ideal conditions and monitored closely. The whole point is to proactively reduce excess available fuel on the ground.
This decreases the likelihood of a small fire (should, say, an unforeseen lightning strike ignite an area of trees) becoming a vast and devastating wildfire.
***
After our hike, the kids melt into the seats of the van. We unzip coats and rip off hats. My husband and I decide to drive the 16 miles south to Rainbow Point, the end of the paved road and highest elevation in the park. The kids don’t mind, they’re just glad to be warm and happy to do nothing more than stare out the windows.
But I remind them, “Keep your eyes peeled” and they nod. Years ago on another road trip, I invented a game where the kids could accrue arbitrarily ascribed points for any number of random reasons. Ask a good question? Fifty points. Point out some landmark the rest of us didn’t notice? One hundred points. See an animal that wasn’t a bird or horse or cow? One thousand points. On this trip, my husband, Chris, earned 10,000 points for spotting a grey coyote running across a field of snow. An elk would receive 50,000 points.
In the car, I scan for my elk and notice how spread apart the tree trunks are—ten, even twenty feet apart. But eighty feet up, evergreen branches of ponderosa pines reach out towards each other, forming a dense protective canopy.
***
Ponderosa pines, a staple tree of the southwest, can grow to over two hundred feet tall. They love the sun but easily overcrowd each other. Thinning them out is necessary. Their bark becomes a characteristic orange-brown at maturity—around 120 years of age—but until then, their straight trunks stay nearly black. They can live as long as 400 years.
***
On our drive, the forest clears and as far as we can see, barren land supports nothing more than charred tree trunks. They stand isolated, defeated, like ghosts of soldiers on a frozen field of death.
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head.
“I remember hearing about a big fire,” Chris said, slowing the car down a little, “but I thought that was a long time ago.” The landscape passes like frames from a film projector. Blackwhiteblackwhiteblackwhite.
“I wonder why nothing has grown back yet?” I say.
***
A number of years ago, when counseling became a necessity to the survival of our marriage, we learned new skills for effective communication. I smiled and nodded and agreed wholeheartedly that my husband of twenty years needed to learn how to communicate. But me? No. I was fine. I already knew how to talk.
In one session, the counselor held up a 3x3 card she called “the floor.” She handed it to my husband and said, “You have the floor.” Whoever held the floor was the speaker. The other person, the listener. There were some other rules, like not interrupting and not talking too long, but before you could get your own turn with the floor, you’d have to summarize what you’d heard the other person say. The speaker had to approve, making sure they felt understood. And that was it. The whole point of not having the floor was to listen. To really, truly listen. It was not, as I so often did, half listen while formulating my rebuttal.
***
At the visitor center, the kids find stickers for their water bottles. We look around at t-shirts and magnets and pick an ornament for our Christmas tree. Chris makes the purchases while I wait in line to talk to the ranger. I ask her about kids programs and when it’s best to come back to stargaze. Before I leave, I ask, “We noticed this whole burnt area on our way to the end of the park, what was that?”
“Yeah,” the brim of her hat fans up and down, “that was the Bridge Fire. In 2009.” The fire started from a lightning strike outside the park and was allowed to burn. But then the winds picked up and they lost nearly 4000 acres to the fire.
“But if the fire happened over a decade ago, why is there no regrowth?”
She explains how in that area, the ponderosa pines were overcrowded. The canopy got so thick, it choked out the sun, preventing any undergrowth. So when the fire entered the area and destroyed the larger trees, there were no saplings or small shrubs there to begin regenerating the area again.
I try to understand: Fire is good. But some fires are bad. You don’t want too much fuel on the ground, so you burn it off. But for regrowth after an unpredictable fire, you need to have some.
“Will it ever regrow?” I ask.
She shrugs, “We don’t know.”
***
Another time in counseling, we were taught a mnemonic to structure a criticism in objective, formulaic language. I feel this, when you do that, in this situation. Oh come on, I couldn’t help but think. Can’t I just say what I need to say without having to measure it out so precisely?
I’m a person that is ‘here and gone’ with my words. I drop them then I’m done. For me, once it’s out, it’s over. But not everyone’s like that. And no matter how natural it is for me, it’s an easy way to hurt the people I love.
It will take me the better part of a year to really understand that burns are inevitable. That they’re even good. That they serve a very important role for the health of the environment. But more than anything I will learn, if anticipated, they don’t need to be unpredictable or devastating.
But I am not a controlled burn.
I am a lightning strike.
***
I walk through the house in circles. All I see are socks, discarded blankets, dog toys, more socks, a random half-way-through abandoned craft project. The walls feel smaller today, the air thick. At dinner, the kids make some comment that reminds me of an issue I meant to bring up with my husband—at a better time. I feel this when you do that in this situation.
But like the unpredictable built up, pent up electrical charge that grows between sky and ground, positive reaches out for negative, and my thoughts connect with my mouth. I don’t lose control, or choose this moment, it simply happens. And right there, right at the table, my words ignite. My husband looks at me hurt, confused, surprised. And angry.
***
The alarm rings and Chris leaves the room without a word or a touch. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow the familiar feeling of going to bed without speaking. I take a long deep breath.
Chris walks back in with a cup of coffee, purposefully not looking at me on his way to the bathroom for a shower. I lift my body off the sheets. He pauses when he sees me stir.
“Good morning,” I force myself to say in words as bland as paper.
“Morning,” he says, then sets his coffee down, turns on his heels, and leaves the room.
What did I do now? I wonder. I rest on my elbow, unsure what comes next. Are we still fighting? What is going on?
Sooner than I thought possible, he pushes the door back open and walks in. He holds my favorite mug with two hands, and I watch him with wide eyes. He places the coffee on my bedside table.
“Is this a peace offering?” I ask.
“It’s just coffee,” he says with a straight face. But then our eyes meet. And neither of us try to hide the smiles crossing our lips.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
Later, when we are ready, we will talk through both of our hurts and disappointments. But right now, we start the day together. All these years in, we’re still learning. How to nurture growth, how to give space. How best to put out some fires, and make sure others still burn.