EXPLOSIONS OF THE HEART

By Miles Patrick Yohnke

© 2012 All Rights Reserved.

I was awakened by a loud, ground-shaking BANG! Two explosions rang out!

I experienced the black car parade at the age of five after my father was killed in a potash mine accident, so I know death intimately. Growing up in the '70s, before the billboards, advertising and paralegal companies that sprung up creating easy divorces (i.e. No Complications. Call Now), it was still fairly common to have two parents at home. In school, I was the only one in our class that didn't have a father. Father's Day was always awkward.

The teacher would say: "Class, today we are making something for our dads." "Oh, great," I thought, as I placed 'Ken' for my oldest brother on the item I made. Awkward, it was just plain awkward.

I know depression and hatred all too well. Having a learning disorder, I was unmercifully bullied through elementary school. Not only from fellow students, but from the teachers as well. Les e bon temps roule, Let the good times roll. Like many, I have had my heart broken. Dumped. Depleted. Rejected. Various forms of physical anguish, different kinds of sad-various shades.

However, I didn't know fire. I was awakened by a ground-shaking bang! From my deep-coma-like sleep, it was: "What is that?"

I live in what is called the cool district of our city--the Broadway district. I live on the top floor, facing southwest. It is a great view. People tell me it looks like the cover artwork of "Hotel California" by the Eagles. Indeed, it is like that. On the morning of Wednesday, August 8, 2012, at 2:52 a.m., I was awakened by a very loud, ground-shaking bang! Kaboom! Explosions rang out.

I ran to my living room window to see what happened. Thick dark smoke was dancing ominously about. It appeared to be coming out of the new high-rise that was just built. The sound of a car horn blaring. A real sense of chaos was occurring before my eyes. Something far more than me.

The new high-rise has these two lights that shine up to the night sky, kind of like the Luxor hotel in Las Vegas. You could barely see them in the billowing dark clouds.

The apartment complex to the north of me - one of the suites appeared to be full of fire. What was happening down below? What was happening to my Broadway district? A whirlwind of feelings. Frantic. A million thoughts flooded my mind--loss of life. Sorrow, gut-wrenching agony, having to move--start over. I could now feel for the first time what it would be like to be in a fire. Hearing the sound of police cars and fire trucks, the sirens growing closer... louder.

I get my clothes on and head for the area.

On the street, as I rapidly approach it, I realized it was a parked car, a new car that was on fire. That suite that I thought was on fire was just a pane of glass reflecting this vehicle. The car was engulfed. Intense--fire. The explosions heard were the gas tank and the blaring horn was this vehicle. It was so extreme.

It apparently was just a wiring problem, a defect. No one was in the car. The fire was contained. No loss of life or other property was lost.

There, on the street, with the firemen and their hoses - I thought about what it must feel like for a human to be caught in a fire. The agony. The burning, seared flesh. First-Degree. Second-Degree. Third-Degree burns. Unimaginable pain. Being in the hospital, having to debride the raw open wounds with an abrasive sponge to clean away the bad tissue that will never heal, and has to be "sloughed" off before the wound(s) can heal properly. Skin grafts, taking skin from another part of the body to cover the third-degree burns, skin and nerves that have been completely burned away. How quickly one's life can change. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. To be a burn victim/survivor. The constant reminder on one's body of those moments--tattooed on the skin.

Have you ever wondered what life would be like if you could eliminate the pain, and auction off your past? I sure have, though I am grateful for my youth--it helped shape me. I wouldn't be who I am today. I've been asked: "What kept you going?" My mother, some would say, isn't well-spoken or well-educated, but she was always nurturing, there. She is a quiet leader. Accountable. She isn't superficial or shallow. She wasn't out using men. She never dated after dad's passing--she 36. No excuses, she did her best in her way. My teachers at Sion High School, a special small high school, built up my self-esteem. The self-esteem that the teachers before them had taken. I am blessed for those teachers and that school program. I will always be indebted to them. No excuses.

Whenever you think your life is hard, and you're feeling sorry for yourself at a tender age, or any age, please understand you are not alone. Help is all around us, in government agencies, social programs, or everyday people. Me in '83, at the age of twenty, I was introduced to an array of insightful men: Bob Proctor, Jim Rohn, Brian Tracy, Zig Ziglar. I saved up and bought their cassette tapes (post-8-tracks) and attended their seminars. It had a profound impact on me. Help is all around us, one has to only pay attention. Awareness is key. The universe is constantly answering, and giving feedback, but we must open our eyes, ears, and heart to receive the answers. Search for it. That's the secret: You have to go to it and keep going to it. Knock, and the door shall be opened.

Explosions rang out in my heart that night. Like fire which grabs and feeds from oxygen, so too was my soul ignited. A reminder. We have just this one life. One chance to find a way to use our breath, every single second, positively. We create each day anew. Each day, like a blank paper or canvas space, is a new opportunity, a new beginning. To ignite a fire, an eternal fire from within--we need to keep feeding this. To live our dreams even with all the obstacles before us. To realize that our goals are attainable. We must adapt and persevere.

As humans, we dare to become something more. We are the ones who know that every created thing is a treasure. We are the blessed ones.

Miles Patrick Yohnke, age 50, photographs by Natalie Struck

Natalie Struck is a multi-media artist based out of Saskatoon, Canada.

Through her artistic prowess she creates images that empower narrative.

For more information on her photography please visit her website at:

http://www.nataliestruck.com