I cannot claim the hard work of having chopped the wood to make the logs or prepared the kindling. This is someone else’s house and someone else’s stove. Still, there is work to be done. There is the work of collecting the logs from the outside store, which I do by filling a long wicker basket with as much as I can manage (which isn’t much) and lugging it inside.
There are so many storms of late and my face is whipped by winds and rain. But this is not unpleasant. In fact, I feel the sludge of apathy being lifted from my skin and carried off into the winter sky.
There is the small task of scrunching newspaper and fetching kindling from the settle in the hallway, which I pile in a little wigwam atop the paper. Finally, I lay a small log or two and light a match, dropping it into this little nest and I hold my breath a while, waiting to see whether I have done my work well enough.
As the kindling takes and then the logs, my heart dances upwards with the flames and I can’t help but make a little plea to the great night and the stars:
“More of this, please. Give me more logs and earth and work for my hands to do.”
Because lately, you know, I can’t shake this feeling that I am worn out from the ease of modern life.
Love and courage,