"Walls for the wind,
And a roof for the rain,
And drinks beside the fire --
Laughter to cheer you
And those you love near you,
And all that your heart may desire."
-- Irish Blessing
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| Campfire flames 5-31-14 |
I'm a total sucker for a campfire.
We've had campfires in the evenings out back on our patio for the past couple of nights.
Two nights ago we plugged in our shitty little garage radio and listened to the Indians game as night pulled down the shades all around us, accompanied by the crackle of flames and firelight, sipping wine and looking up into the clear, starry sky. We roasted marshmallows and made s'mores. I stretched out on my reclining lawn chair for a better view of the stars. I was warming myself by a fire with the people I love most in the whole world.
It was bliss.
Yesterday was an afternoon game, so last night's fire was a quieter affair -- no baseball, just pops and crackles. Leo roasted some hot dogs. My husband sipped whiskey. I took pictures of the flames. The sky was even starrier than the night before with a whisper of a sliver of a moon. Smoke got in my eyes. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't. I was warming myself by a fire with the people I love most in the whole world.
More bliss.
Fire is mesmerizing. Hypnotic. I can't not watch it. It just draws me in and holds me there, captivated and still, which has a very comforting, calming effect on my mind. In my soul.
A campfire, for me, always conjures good feelings. I don't have any negative campfire memories or associations or experiences. A campfire doesn't trigger anything sad, or bad, or unpleasant for me. In my memories, every time I've drawn up my chair and warmed myself beside a fire outside in the open air, it's been nothing but good.
How can anybody be mean, or petty, or selfish, or hostile or angry here? Here, inside the glowing ring of light around a campfire. Here, held by the fire's captivating spell, comforted by its warmth.
A campfire is kind of a holy, sacred space isn't it? It's a place where we kick off our boots and spurs, hang up our guns and somebody pulls out a harmonica and we tell stories and share our beans and pass around the hooch and listen to the crickets and breathe the same air under the same sky under the same whoever-it-is-up-there.
It should be, anyway.
The boys all shower after a campfire because they don't like the smell clinging to them.
Not me. I love going to bed with ashes in my hair, still smelling the sharp, mingled, lingering aromas of wood and smoke and night air coming off me. I guess it's my way of trying to make it last a little longer, of taking the good feeling with me into my sleep and my dreams.
It'll fade by morning. But that's OK. We'll make more.
There'll be plenty more bliss to go around.
