Fire

Fire
Bette stone


Cherished memories flash through my mind of happy times spent as a child, laughing, playing, and feeling the warmth of love, of belonging, and of acceptance as my family enjoyed the mesmerizing beauty, so willingly offered by the fire my father created. From brittle clumps of dried moss and grasses, the fire leaped to life; then, with patience and skill, my father strategically positioned small wood chips and the handful of dried twigs given to him by the excited fingers of my brothers and me. We had quickly scurried around the fire pit’s parameters, like bees lighting on delicate flowers harvesting golden nectar to appease the gods. Eventually, the twig size increased as the flames declared their force, and the intensity continued to mount as my father added larger and larger pieces.

When the blaze readily released the warmth we all desired, each of us quickly selected our personal seats. We tumbled, rolled, and situated the small logs as close to the fire’s edge as the scorching fingers of flame permitted. We positioned ourselves, a family of five, around the fire, intrigued by its mystical flames: waves that continually changed their configuration---constant but never the same.

Those few times we camped near the creek, isolated from the demands of the world, were joyous and peaceful. Although the evils of the dark and the pressures of the day lurked just outside the ring of light, we basked in the fire's glow, feeling safe, happy, and alive. As our worries subsided and departed, we eagerly beckoned Mom to tell us a story. We welcomed the imaginative sway of her storytelling that captivated our thoughts. Like the rising smoke, her words carried our struggles away from our tired bodies.

Weeks, months, and years have passed. All the while, the stresses and pressures of each day have manifested their hold on me, tightening the muscles surrounding my neck and reaching the recesses of my back. Seeking relief, I sought the healing powers of a masseuse’s hands; I acquired the fondness of a glass of wine, and the relaxing quality of a warm bath. However, like the curative promise of penicillin, their effectiveness at easing the pain was short lived. They lack the healing powers of the fire.

During the thirty some years of re-designing the landscape of our backyard, my husband fashioned a fire pit. He too has mastered the art of constructing well-built fires. And most nights while the flames establish themselves, he pulls two wine glasses from the cupboard. The deep red juices flow from the bottle, sliding down the tapered sides. Turning on soft music and dimming the lights, he takes my hand. Guided by the fire’s glow, he walks me to waiting chairs and hands me my wine. Silently, we sit, becoming connected and grounded.

Allowing myself to become lost in dance of the flames, I sense the curative and uplifting elements so freely given, and treasure the love bestowed by the two most important men in my life.