Meditations on Fire

Now on these winter nights at the cabin, I often put my book down and let myself be mesmerized by the flames in the woodstove speaking an ancient language, unintelligible but soothing, something about comfort and heat on a cold night.

When I first bought the cabin, I had some romantic notions about building a fire in the woodstove, including the Zen qualities of chopping wood. But it’s proved more difficult than I thought. Trying to split a large piece of wood with an axe takes a lot of sweat and frustration before I find that spot in the wood where it lets go, easily splits into two.

Perhaps because my woodstove is small, it takes a long time to get going, requiring just the right size and amount of wood. And the fire needs my attention constantly, so I’m jumping up every 15 or 20 minutes to rearrange the logs, throw another one on there, along with some pine needles. Now I know why, in the days of the English ruling class, footmen were needed to tend the fire throughout the day.

But the rewards of a good fire are immense. Thoreau (in a journal entry for Oct. 20, 1885) talks about the pleasures of finding your own wood (rather than buying them from the local farmer). “Each stick I deal with has a history, and I read it as I am handling it, and last of all, I remember my adventures in getting it, while it is burning in the winter evening. This is the most interesting part of its history. It has made part of a fence or a bridge perchance, or has been rooted out of a clearing and bears the marks of fire on it.”

I like to think about the firewood that was once living, part of a tree that could have started its life 100 years ago and is now changing from matter to energy in front of my eyes. Brown fibers of wood become blue and orange flames, quickly passing from one form to another, while providing some warmth, the tree’s last gesture, and a gift.

But it’s more than warmth I crave. Last week, I did a two-day meditation retreat at the cabin. After some time had passed, watching my breath go in and out started to feel labored, and I felt sick of my thoughts. So I dropped all the effort and let myself just stare at the fire, let my thoughts dissolve into these flames.

It’s the perfect meditation because it gave me something to watch when my own thoughts became tedious: blue, yellow and red flames licking the wood in a ghostly dance around the edges of the logs or smoldering in red embers. It’s as mesmerizing as watching water flow, although the flow is upward instead of down.  

There’s enough going on to keep my mind concentrated on the present but not enough to start a new conversation in my head.  And if, by chance, my thoughts do start to stray, there’s always the pop and crackle, which brings me back to the fire and the present, to me basking in the light and warmth of the fire while the winds pummel the cabin surrounded by these dark and somber mountains.

 

Comments

[`barbara]

Cabin Journal -- I am new to your blog. This morning I spent some time reading several of your posts. I liked the rhythm of your writing style as well as your content and photos. -- barbara

[Julene]

I love these quiet, often surprising meditations on all things elemental--sun, fire weather.

[sally]

One thing we used in the woods was a wedge that would help split those tough pieces and also a maul is helpful. A fire needs to be built, the foundation enough small pieces that burn easily and then graduated pieces till you have a good set of coals to sustain the larger pieces eventually. Fire building is an art. One of the easiest ways to meditate. The fire has the ability to transfix the mind for sure. I love staring at the campfire.

[Reed]

I really like your Fire Meditation blog. Beautiful thoughts, insights and descriptions.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Good tip, Sally, about the wedge. I have tried that but not the maul. I agree that building a fire is an art, one I haven't quiet yet mastered.