Stubborn fire. Determined fire. Same mystery. I plead with it to roar, and then seek to mellow its force.
The old log cabin I call home is largely heated by a wood stove. It got down into the twenties a couple of nights ago. One of those crisp, starry nights that--like fire--is both inviting and intimidating. And somewhere on the footsteps of evening, I left the stove unattended for a bit too long.
I cracked the door to see if anything yet glowing, and there remained only a few tiny pieces of the last fire. So with kindling snapped off fallen trees from down the hill, bellows kick-started the coals into flickers and finally into full born flame. I added some wood to the fire, closed the door, set the air intakes, and moved on.
Later that evening, the temperature of the room told the tale of an untended fire. This time, in the dark of the woods gathering kindling, I vowed to take no chances. My armload carried enough, then extra, then too much. The next flames would burn all night!
Next morning, in the seventy degree room surrounded by a hard freeze night, I stoked the fire yet again. There were large coals still pulsing behind the glass as I tended the stove I must keep until next March or April.
And this morning again, I keep the fires burning. Rising before others in the home, kindling hope in my mind and stoking silence into my spirit. I must keep warm inside. There are others who count on me.