Years later, we'd rake all the leaves in Minnesota and build a grand bonfire in the woods in the lot next to our house. We'd gather with the neighbors and our marshmallows in celebration of the fall. Carrie had a predictable yearly ritual of melting her sandals, which didn't matter too much since shoes never fit much longer than a year anyway. It was a glorious time, when fall had no negative associations.
My dad showed me how to build a fire using the grate with crunched up newspaper placed just so that it would start perfect every time. More than once, we had a little excitement in the basement when the fire would burn too hot, exploding the glass doors which were meant to contain it, sending glass flying and leaving the smell of burnt carpet lingering in the air.
As an adult in Portland, I'd been mesmerised by candles, for their heat and their grandeur. And under the influence of a campfire in the woods, I can enter an alternate universe where dancing flames lead you to another place all together.
Over lunch today, I was thinking of how people seem to try to straight-jacket me into a mold that never seems to fit. I don't know if it is judgement or just human nature to classify. So I wondered what I could be. A raging river, a chameleon, a waterfall? A fire! It waxes and wanes, sometimes it's large and bright, lighting the way. Other times, it's barely simmering, so it might appear to be going out, but with just a little air and a little fuel and it's back to it's full magnificence.
That is me. I am a fire. Colors of blue and orange and white hot at times. Never predictable, controllable or to be underestimated, but full of life and vitality.
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