I stood in my backyard, pulling twig sized branches
from the smallish trees that stood at rapt attention,
waiting to serve me.
Tears filled my eyes as I said, “Plum, dear plum, what
do your branches offer me today?”
Less than a quarter hour before I was plucking wet and
slightly tired and soggy wood from my diminished wood
pile. April in Bakersfield doesn’t sound much like
hearth-fire time, yet today – it was.
I had told My Muse last week, “It is so cold and damp,
I want a fire so badly… but…well…I….”
He wondered aloud why I couldn’t have a fire.
“Well, all my wood is wet.”
“The trick,” he said, “is to leave some wood by your
fireplace so that it doesn’t get wet.”
I glared into my phone, massaging the skin between my
eyes so my frown wouldn’t deepen the lines there.
“I know that, but I didn’t suspect I would want to
have a fire in April.”
Days passed and it was still cold in April and I still
wanted a fire and somewhere between the desire and
the implementation everything clicked into place and
I found myself scavenging for wood. I marched into
my living room and plunked myself down in front
of my fireplace only to discover there was, in fact,
some dry wood available.
It was large dry wood, though. I sighed. “Great. Might
as well not have any wood at all,” my
facial-lines-massaging-self lamented.
I put together what I had and struck a match.
Imagine my delight when it ignited. I had made a fire,
in April, without the perfect equipment. “Hummm,” I
thought, “time to shift my beliefs I suppose.”
I sat right on the floor, watching the flames
lick the roof of the fireplace in great arching
motions as if it was an enormous, charred
chocolate ice cream cone, much like my favorite
fudge brownie flavor from Baskin-Robbins. I reveled
in my success.
And then it started fading. And my quick burst of
stuff from outside had diminished and the wet, soggy
wood had never gotten hot enough.
“Anything will burn if it is hot enough,” I heard my Muse
speak into eternity. Even when he wasn’t nearby he was
pushing my buttons.
I stood up, brushed off my black pants and marched
myself back into my yard. I greeted my trees that needed
pruning and cooed at them as I pulled their dried, shriveling
branches from their core. “You give me so much, you
ask for so little,” I said to them.
I worked intentionally, methodically, quickly.
I rested my hand on the trunk of my little plum. I felt a
twinge of sadness for not paying near enough attention
or gratitude for this perfectly colored tree. “We’ll do this,
we will.” I told her as I turned and marched back
into my house.
The embers were crackling, seeming to celebrate my
return with more fire-making offerings.
Once again I built. “Are you in this for the long haul?” the
fire place asked me.
I nodded. “Then show it,” it dared me.
So I did. I built with everything I had and then some. I
struck a match and sat back, smiling. I watched and smiled.
I grabbed my notebook and wrote. The “too big” wood wasn’t
anymore. The wet wood was no longer wet.
The earlier quick-burst of flames was beautiful to look at
and was even fun for a moment, but it wasn’t a long-haul
fire. It wasn’t there to teach me, over and over, to whisper
to me when I most needed its presence.
It was a flash-in-the-fireplace.
This fire, this second fire, was the life-changing one, the
soul one. The one that I allowed myself to build hot enough
and true enough. The one that said, “Yes, I am building
for the long haul.”
The fire is gone now, except for traces of sound and
the scent still hangs festively in the air. It left
a poem, too:
Sweet sensuousness of the crackling air
Grey essence climbs into my heart
Arching, aching, tendrils twine with my hair
Love offerings given heavenward
Lips humming unspoken melodies spare
The unburnable burns
The not there suddenly is
The too soggy and wet
Now isn’t and it all
It all It all It all It all
Weaves with the saltwater
Traveling from my face
To the Earth
In bewildered gratitude
= =
The sounds of these words nurture me, like the fire did
as it made my heart fill, my lips hum, my ears hear
whispers from deep within me.
Bewildered gratitude from the soles of my feet to the
top of my scalp from my heart and my breath and my
fingertips: it is gratitude of the unknowing, gratitude
for the smokey-grey, not quite being able to see shadows
that come into our lives cloaked in what looks like fear
and often, in the end, is our greatest friend.
My plum tree offered her used-up branches so that
I could have an “a-ha” and pass it along to you.
I am in it for the long haul.
Anything will burn if it is hot enough.
Somewhere between the desire and the
implementation everything clicked into place.
Thank you, plum.
Thank you, Muse.
Thank you, fire.
Thank you, bewilderment.
Thank YOU.
© 2007
Julie Jordan Scott
= + = + =
Julie Jordan Scott is a Writer, Life Coach, Poet, Speaker,
Actor, Director and Mom Extraordinaire whose deepest passion
is helping people - like you - discover and live with
passion. Call 661.444.2735 to book your complimentary
coaching session or visit 5passions.com for
plentiful resources to live a passion-rich life.
Recent Comments