As the flames dance, the fire tries to burn itself out, and the house settles and sighs, letting its bones relax into the dark softness of night. The snow, first of the season, lingers outside, capping this little part of earth in white. Autumn is upon us, and winter waits in the corner, just about ready to fully stake its icy claim on the land. The grandfather clock chimes the quarter hour, I write words with an ink pen on old paper, and still the flames dance.
I try to pay attention to how it feels to write with a pen, and I get distracted by thoughts of tomorrow, a bill that needs to be paid, the bits of wood that could be swept from the hearth. Ice cream sounds better than it should on a day where the temperature is 20 degrees and falling, and what comes next remains unknown, elusive as ever.
The flames continue to dance, but they are getting tired.
I want to stay inside, because who wouldn’t on a cold, dark night? But if I don’t go out, the fire will die. It needs more fuel, and that means walking up the hill and trekking across the frozen field to the wood shed. Going out sounds like the last thing I want to do, but as I step into the frigid air, the night sky puts out a welcome with the sort of twinkling you forget exists when you don’t look up in the dark enough. A thousand stars blink back at me, and the crescent moon hangs in the westerly sky like a painting of light, marking an ancient cycle. The cold cracks with the crispness reserved for temperatures most people don’t welcome this early in the season, but on this night, there’s something about the thinness of the air that feels necessary.
I walk to the shed, load up the wood carrier with logs, and make my way back across the frozen field, stopping twice to look up at those distant galactic neighbors, feeling my body tingle with the kind of awareness that comes from knowing you are a small part of a universal whole, one that doesn’t trouble itself with elusive things, like worrying about errant wood chips or tomorrow’s list. One that notices – and feels fully – the details, even if they aren’t always comfortable. One that welcomes you into the cold dark night.
Back inside, I put another log on the dying embers, and the cats lay stretched contentedly as near the stove as possible. The child of the house stirs, whimpering a story in sleep, and the neighbor’s light shines brightly from across the lake. The flames come back to life, taking up the dance again.
After awhile only coals, glowing red, cast a shadow on the hearth stones. I write a few more words with the pen. The clock continues to tick, the cats sleep, tucked into the lingering warmth of the stones, and the neighbor’s light blinks out. Another day is done, and the deep quiet of late night lays claim on the hours to come.
Some seasons of life
call for words that
remind us to let
nature take its course
while being fully
present to what
that might mean-
Dylan Thomas wrote,
“Do not go gentle
into that good night
Rage, rage against
the dying of the light” –
Which can mean
a lot of things
if we get creative.
Yes, still the flames dance.
Heidi Barr | Author 