We have a great thing, my firekeeper and I. The fire he keeps, and tends to so diligently, as if he was created for this very job, keeps me warm and sets my creativity ablaze. It is next to the golden glow on a windy fall night that I have my best ideas and thoughts, and plans for new creations. It is within the circle of warmth my firekeeper and I have discussions on big things. Like how cool it is to be sitting by the fire on a cool night, after our daily work is done, and keep vigil with the farmer on the next hill harvesting his corn at night before a harsh weather change marks the end of Indian summer. Or how we can imagine our first Christmas in our new home, when the kids come home and family gathers for dinner. In this circle, it is safe to speak of such fragile things. In this sanctuary, we are far away and protected from the cold realities of the world.
To watch him tend his fire is to watch a ritual or an act of worship as old as time itself. As if the gift of the flame is to be protected, cherished, fed, nurtured. This particular fire consumed the cardboard boxes leftover from our move from the city. As the burnt layers of the cardboard got caught up in the wind, and danced across the darkness just outside the boundary of the firelight, I smiled. For some reason it brought me a momentary feeling of joy, as I imagined the sparks consciously fleeing from the fire, anxious to shine their own light. My firekeeper didn't see it that way. He was genuinely concerned that an escaping spark could by accident catch something ablaze that wasn't meant to be. (Even though we are just out of a rainy fog that seemed to hover over our hill like a damp sponge). As he stood beside his fire, fire-keeping staff in one hand, his eyes focused intently on the escaping sparks, the glow from the fire highlighted his features. I could see the glow on his brow line, the shadow his stubble cast into the orange glow on his cheekbone, and the straight line his shoulders make. Although no threat was present, I felt safe. I felt at ease. I felt like my firekeeper would protect me and keep me safe, just as he does his sacred fire.
As the light from a thousand stars fade into the purple gray clouds roiling in, the fire is no more than pumpkin orange coals, and occasional flame that flares out. Big things were discussed during this fire, and as we readied ourselves to settle for the night, the farmer on the other hill was done with his daily work. My firekeeper and I retreat to our bed for the night, and all is well in our world. And after tomorrow's work is done, we will meet in the same place, my firekeeper and I. And while he keeps watch and tends the fire that so feeds my soul, I will create and dream big.
