I’ve had a fascination with fire as long as I can remember. As a youngster I appreciated the warmth of the woodstove in the corner of a room in which I would otherwise see my breath. As a teen I was the self-designated keeper of the campfire while friends and classmates were drinking. I always stayed til the end to make sure the fire was out. Smokey the Bear was my idol.
I “played with matches” and watched how fire behaved. I felt powerful somehow to be in charge of such a force. As a young mother I enjoyed splitting and stacking wood in the crisp fall air knowing my home would be warm for my babies through winters that often had a stretch of -60° in January. With my many moves there were times I didn’t have a fire “place” and I missed the energy of having fire in my home. It was cold and clammy and lifeless.
The kindling was fiddle-farting around, not really lighting, more like smoldering, until I put an empty tea box on it. The flames immediately reached for and consumed it filling the firebox with orange light.
My thoughts quickly went to the fire in each of us. Sometimes it smolders, sometimes it too fiddle-farts around hemming and hawing taking its time fanning into flame. Maybe our internal fire also needs something to reach for, something that makes our heart sing, something that sets the heart on fire.
Starting a fire, like launching something that sets your heart afire, takes some diligent effort, but once going it can be maintained with relative ease by being aware of what is needed next.