Thursday, January 8, 2009

Actually, I did start the fire . . .

There is something about a fire in a fireplace. It was quite cold tonight when I got home from work. The air was clear and the moon was bright. One of those nights when the temperature drops quickly after sundown.

It's my birthday today. For the most part it was a regular work day, court in the morning, writing and appointments in the afternoon. It was fun to receive birthday wishes throughout the day, an undeniable benefit of text messaging, emails and facebook. And I received a couple of great old fashioned cards as well.

But I was a bit melancholy as I came home into the cold house. The perfect answer to my dilemma was to build a fire. No, it wasn't the most perfect answer, but it was the only one that was going to happen. So, I stacked the firewood, stuffed some paper, and lit it. The logs, dry hickory and oak, caught up quickly and cracked as the sparks flew up the chimney. Melancholy in a cold house is sad. Melancholy in the light of a glowing fire somehow holds promise of something more.

There is something primordial about a fire. I like to turn the lights down low, or off, lay back on the sofa and gaze into the glowing embers and leaping flames. I love getting sleepy as I warm in the radiant heat. I do not understand why, but being still and looking into a fire connects me with something that gives me peace, something that does not require that thought be formed into word.

Then a friend brought a surprise dinner. We shared the dinner, a glass of wine and part of the football game, all in the warm glow of the fire.

My friend is gone, and the fire is burning slower. The pile of embers has grown and is glowing bright orange. Staring into the embers somehow stirs memories, good memories. The melancholy is back, but it is sweet. I am thankful.

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