January 3: Fire
Fires were a big part of our Christmas celebrations. We always threw all the wrapping into a giant fire that blazed all day and evening at my aunt and uncle's house (and, often, at our house in the morning, too).
Petalouda House has a fireplace. It's tiny compared to the giant, brick versions in the houses several of us owned in Ohio, all of them built by my uncle, who loved the fire most of all. This season it was -45 degrees (with windchill) for four days straight (yes, you read that right) and the best thing to do was sit in front of the fire.
"Look, Mom. It's turning different colors. It's going away!"
Our foster son is completely in awe of the fire's ability to change the shape of things, to ultimately consume them. He isn't often quiet, but he can get very quiet watching a fire. He wants to throw everything into the fire. I've had to rescue directions to some of his toys and newspapers I haven't read yet out of his arms before they get thrown in.
But sometimes I appreciate his instinct: will it give us warmth? Will it feed this fire that nourishes us? Then let it become the new form it was meant for in this moment.
This season I want to figure out how to trust that the things I cannot control, the things I must give up, will be well cared for, loved and consumed and given back to me as warmth. I want to remember how nothing, nothing is permanent, and the hard things going on right now in my life and my family's won't be going on forever.
The fire draws everyone to it on cold days, even visitors and residents who have been spending more time on video games than talking with us. I've had several difficult, intimate conversations in front of the fire this season. It has been a season marked by challenges and uncertainty--but also so much joy and closeness.
Let us all be willing to be flexible, to change shape as necessary. Let us be in awe of the way fire works to change what we don't need into warmth and connectedness we desperately need in these times. Let us be willing to let go what we can let go.
Petalouda House has a fireplace. It's tiny compared to the giant, brick versions in the houses several of us owned in Ohio, all of them built by my uncle, who loved the fire most of all. This season it was -45 degrees (with windchill) for four days straight (yes, you read that right) and the best thing to do was sit in front of the fire.
"Look, Mom. It's turning different colors. It's going away!"
Our foster son is completely in awe of the fire's ability to change the shape of things, to ultimately consume them. He isn't often quiet, but he can get very quiet watching a fire. He wants to throw everything into the fire. I've had to rescue directions to some of his toys and newspapers I haven't read yet out of his arms before they get thrown in.
But sometimes I appreciate his instinct: will it give us warmth? Will it feed this fire that nourishes us? Then let it become the new form it was meant for in this moment.
This season I want to figure out how to trust that the things I cannot control, the things I must give up, will be well cared for, loved and consumed and given back to me as warmth. I want to remember how nothing, nothing is permanent, and the hard things going on right now in my life and my family's won't be going on forever.
The fire draws everyone to it on cold days, even visitors and residents who have been spending more time on video games than talking with us. I've had several difficult, intimate conversations in front of the fire this season. It has been a season marked by challenges and uncertainty--but also so much joy and closeness.
Let us all be willing to be flexible, to change shape as necessary. Let us be in awe of the way fire works to change what we don't need into warmth and connectedness we desperately need in these times. Let us be willing to let go what we can let go.
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