Dancing Flames
Thwack.
The fall chill is drifting over the mountains and down into the valley bringing with it grey that washes over the land, and yet it’s not a sad grey. You know the kind I am talking about, the kind that lingers and brings with it only sadness and sorrow. But some grey’s aren’t sad, only cold.
Thwack.
Orange and yellow leaves blanket the ground like a quilt sown together with twigs and small sticks. The leaves remind me of something. Fire. Raging hot fire spreading, boiling underneath the surface, ready to consume anything that stands in it’s path.
Thwack.
Sort of like the anger pulsing through my body right now. Anger is somewhat a mystery because there are times when it just comes upon you and you aren’t really sure why. And yet I know most fires don’t start without a spark. Something to ignite the tinder that gives rise to the flame. Sometimes it’s an injustice that happens, but at other times it can be sorrow or guilt that provides a spark. And yet right now I only know the fury that has a grasp over my body.
Thwack.
Maybe there is another universe or dimension where someone broke my heart, or I suffered a great loss, a death or injury perhaps. The difficulty with reflection in the midst of anger is that it takes over the senses. Every interruption no matter how slight may trigger a volcanic explosion of rage that takes the breath out of the room. Rational thinking is nowhere to be found in the midst of it all.
Thwack.
And because it is the safest thing to do I swing my axe. There is something about the smooth handle that understands my anger, and is more than happy to split wood with me. The tension that grips my body, my whole body flexing, as if ready for a fight, gets a little bit looser with every swing. There is something about the steady rhythm that steadies my soul.
Thwack.
Before long there is a large pile of firewood piled together ready to consumed by the fire. I take some inside and place it in the fireplace. I strike a match and place it in the small wooden shelter whose only purpose is to burn so that we might be warm in this fall chill. I watch the flames dance over the wood and it’s as if the fire in my cheeks begins to dissipate. Like the anger finally has someone to dance with, and no longer needs to stay within my body. I still don’t know what sparked this fury, but for now I am content to watch the flames dance in the night.
