After a day of accomplishments, a day of putting one foot in front of the other so that tomorrow I can look back and say I did my best,
once again it comes down to the fire.
And the fire does not cooperate. It’s wet wood, again, I tell myself. And it’s true. I have endless piles of wood and the only piles that are protected, covered against nature, with tarps and recycled shower curtains and random bits of plastic sheeting, are the piles of wood that are destined for dumping, for destruction, for death.
Why am I not protecting my firewood, while I still have a place to build a fire?
And then, as soon as I simply acknowledge the question, the fire flares, the fire rages, as if in answer.
Simple as that.
But what’s the real question?