Falling in love again

I don’t mind the chill of fall anymore. The rain doesn’t bother me. I like the darkening gray skies. I’ve felt the gloom so much in my life that it’s an old friend. I know its form intimately. I look forward to its annual visit, even, because of its dear familiarity.

What I really adore, though, is the beginning of fireplace season. The sacred scent of burning wood. It is my incense, my sage, purifying me instantly. It cuts to the quick a place deep in my core, so deep I almost can’t find words to tell of it. It puts its finger on the feeling of being loved. Humanity stretching back through time, craving warmth, comfort—the fire around which we built our daily rituals. Warding off the unpleasant cold and the gloom with heat and light. A beacon towards which we’re pulled, the siren to which we’re drawn, the mother in whose bright arms we want to dissolve, immersed in sweet, unending bliss. Hard to believe that fire would kill us, uncontained, hurt us if we were to touch it. It’s too benevolent. We can’t imagine it. That glowing kernel around which we center our psyches is sacrosanct. It chases away the darkness from our eyes and our minds. Beauteous thing. Living thing.

Long may thee reign.