I just lit what is likely the last fire of the season. I primarily warm my home with a heat pump these days, but on occasion, the pump needs a bit of an assist, so kindling a fire fills the bill.
Starting a fire has become second nature. I know what to put, where to put it, how to space it all. I don’t think about it. I just do it.
First, I coax it to a small roar, enough to take the edge off in the air. Then, I let it settle back into a low murmuring glow.
I watch as the flames slowly consume the wood. Fire breaking bonds both chemical and essential, changing the wood, devouring it, diminishing it to ash.
Fire lives. It eats. It breathes. And, as it spreads, it reproduces.
I look at the ash. The ghost of a tree that once was. And I remember Dinah, my cat, my pet, my friend, who was returned to me a week after her passing as ash as well. Such a small mound of ash for such a large presence in my days.
I strive to stay connected to the earth. In the end, it is to the earth that I will return. And, in the silence of this new born day at the end of the season, I know this deeply within my bones.