Fire Then and Now

There was a time when my power felt disheveled—not absent, but scattered and unrefined, like something strong within me had lost its direction. Maybe it was my age, or maybe it was the accumulation of trials, losses, and hardships that began to shape me in ways I couldn’t yet articulate. Whatever it was, it marked the first real entrance into a different kind of awareness—the sense that I was finally taking steps in the right direction.

But I’ve come to understand that the first step in the right direction is not the beginning of true power. It’s the beginning of recognizing that power exists at all. It’s the moment you start to see that you are not a victim—and never truly were. You were playing a game. You were given a hand, a deck of cards you didn’t choose, and it can take years to learn how to play it well.

For a long time, I played the same cards over and over, convinced they would eventually lead to a different outcome. I thought if I just tried harder, pushed further, or approached it more cleverly, I would win something—gain something. But part of growing into your power is learning to recognize when the patterns you rely on are no longer serving you. It’s learning when to stop reaching for the same card simply because it’s familiar.

Over time, I began to play differently. Sometimes I relied on intuition—a quieter, more grounded sense of knowing that didn’t need to be proven. Other times, I still leaned on strategy and cleverness, trying to outthink the moment. But even in that, there was movement. There was learning. There was a steady, undeniable rising.

What came later—and what matters most—is the understanding that mastery is not about adding more. It’s about taking away. It’s about stripping back what is unnecessary, releasing what is performative, and letting go of the need to constantly prove something. What remains after that process is simpler, more precise, and far more powerful than anything built on force.

With a bit of distance—and maybe a touch of rose-colored glasses—I can now look back on the trail and smile. At the mistakes. At the failures. At the people and situations that, at the time, felt heavy or unnecessary but were quietly teaching me something meaningful. All of it part of a kind of divine effort that, whether I understood it or not, was leading me somewhere. And eventually, I landed in a place of higher knowing.

That place—that threshold—is often where true fire is ignited.

For years, I roared in the element of fire. It was the element I not only respected, but the one I felt most at home in. As long as I was grinding, working, transforming—pulling my life out of the damage I had created through years of brokenness—I felt alive. Fully alive. There was something in me that resonated deeply with fire. It matched my intensity, my drive, my willingness to confront.

And I did confront. I looked hard in the mirror and decided that transformation would be my life’s work. To change myself through fire. To burn through what was no longer true.

And it worked.

One day, I looked back and realized the fire had done exactly what it was meant to do. I had transformed into something else.

But something else had happened too.

The flames that once drove me began to quiet. What remained were embers—steady, low, no longer consuming. The intensity that once defined me had softened. My entire temperament had changed.

I have changed.

I haven’t lost my temper or been truly angry in years. I still feel flickers of irritation at times, but that’s about as hot as I get.

What I’ve come to understand is that anger and resentment don’t leave us simply because we want them to. They stay because they are teaching us something about ourselves. They remain until we are willing to see the truth beneath them.

And the truth, for me, was this: living solely in fire comes at a cost.

It may feel powerful. It may look productive. But over time, it begins to turn inward. The body becomes inflamed. The mind sharpens into judgment. Righteousness quietly takes up residence, convincing you that your way is the right way, the only way.

I even gave that part of myself a name—Arthur Righteous.

Arthur lived in my body. He fueled my drive, my discipline, my constant need to push. But he was also inflaming my tissues, contributing to the very arthritis I was trying to outwork, outrun, and out-discipline. I didn’t see it at first. I couldn’t. Because from the outside, it looked like I was doing everything “right.”

It wasn’t until I really stopped and looked—honestly looked—that I began to understand where it was coming from.

And now, I can smile at that version of myself.

Because there was a time when everything I did felt like a job.

Going to work was a job.

Working out was a job.

Showing up for things I didn’t want to attend—still a job, because I believed my presence was required.

Even drinking alcohol became a job.

That’s the part that makes me laugh now. What was meant to be release had turned into another task to complete, another box to check.

I was living in a constant state of grind, believing that was strength.

But it wasn’t strength.

It was fire without balance.

The path of yoga has taught me more about myself than anything else I’ve committed to. There’s a quote by Bruce Lee that has stayed with me over the years: *“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times.”* That kind of discipline used to speak directly to the fire in me.

In yoga, the word *tapas* comes from the element of fire—it’s often translated as self-discipline, the inner heat that drives transformation. And for a long time, I believed that meant pushing harder, doing more, refining myself through effort and intensity. In many ways, it did transform me.

But I’ve come to understand that self-discipline is not quite what I once thought it was.

When you begin to identify with discipline—when it becomes who you believe you are—you subtly move out of balance. It turns from something you practice into something you perform. Instead of being in a state of steady, conscious becoming, you attach to the identity of being “the disciplined one,” the one who pushes, who does, who endures.

And that is a very different energy.

True *tapas* is quieter than that. It’s not something you wear—it’s something you return to. It lives in the consistency of your actions, not in the image you hold of yourself.

As I’ve grown older—and I like to think, a bit wiser—I’ve come to see that fire on its own ultimately serves only itself. Like a forest fire or a flash fire, it burns intensely, consuming everything in its path until there is nothing left but ash. There is power in it, yes—but it is not sustainable on its own.

It’s only when the other elements enter that fire becomes something more refined, more intelligent.

Air moves with fire in a different way. A soft wind doesn’t fight it—it dances with it. It shows fire that it can be guided, shaped, even tempered. There is a kind of mutual respect there. The fire doesn’t lose itself, but it learns how to move with something beyond its own force.

And then there is earth. Earth holds fire. Without it, fire cannot exist in any meaningful way. It is the grounding of our lives—the structure, the steadiness, the daily rituals—that allows fire to continue without destroying everything around it.

When we ignore this, we miss something essential. We miss the beauty found in the quieter aspects of life—the comfort of routine, the sacredness of being held, truly cared for, and the equally important act of offering that care in return.

And then there is water—perhaps the most important element of all.

Water makes up the majority of our bodies. It lives in every cell, every system. Without it, we do not exist in any meaningful way. And yet, beyond its physical presence, water carries its own kind of intelligence.

Water has the ability to quiet fire completely. It can extinguish it, soften it, or simply hold it in balance. Where fire pushes, water adapts. Where fire consumes, water nourishes.

Water is fluid, responsive, and deeply intelligent. It doesn’t force. It doesn’t demand more than what is needed. It moves with what is present, shaping itself to the moment while still remaining fully itself.

There is a softness to water—but it is not weakness. It is a kind of strength that doesn’t need to prove anything. It heals, it restores, it revitalizes. It knows how to sustain life, not just transform it.

And I find myself drawn more and more to that way of being.

To live in the spirit of water is to trust that you don’t have to push so hard to be powerful. That awareness, presence, and adaptability carry their own kind of authority. Water doesn’t question its capacity—it simply moves within it.

That, to me, is a different kind of intelligence. A quieter one. But perhaps the most complete.

In the greater intelligence of life, the universe shows us—moment by moment—how each element works in harmony with the others. Nothing exists in isolation. Nothing thrives alone.

Earth offers its steady care, holding everything in place, supporting life without needing recognition.

Air moves through it all, brushing against leaves, filling the lungs, clearing the inner temple with every breath.

Fire lives within us—in our digestion, in our passions—fueling our ability to act, to think, to create, and to transform.

And water… precious water. It nourishes the earth, restores what has been depleted, and moves through us as emotion—sometimes falling quietly down our cheeks, reminding us that we are alive, that we can feel, that we can soften.

Together, these elements do not compete. They cooperate. They create a balance that is both powerful and gentle at the same time.

And perhaps that is the truest reflection of power—

not force, not intensity alone,

but the ability to live in harmony with all that we are.

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### **A Quiet Union**

Earth holds.

Air moves.

Fire transforms.

Water restores.

Nothing rushes.

Nothing forces.

And in their quiet agreement,

life continues—

steady, whole,

and beautifully alive.

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**Tina Chabot**

*Ayurvedic Health Counselor*

*Tina Chabot School of Yoga*

[www.tinachabotyoga.com](http://www.tinachabotyoga.com)