Dances With Flames (Edited)

Two nights ago, alone in the woods,I was transported back to a place that lived before history.  My campfire had dwindled from neglect and a damp chill settled around me.  The same chill settled upon my heart as I pondered the thought of living the rest of my days alone.  The dark, moonless night was an appropriate companion,  mirroring my thoughts and mood. 

Before me, a pile of darkened wood and gray ash, the remnants of a blaze that had earlier cast a circle of light that nearly reached the pieces of scattered, rotten wood, now firmly entwinded in brambles and briars, obscurring the remnants of a two room shack.  There, nearly eighty years ago, my father was born into a small world where the work was hard and hot, but life's simplicity caused no worry.

The songs of the night woods have often served as a comforting friend.  On this night, they remained silent, listening to the lonely notes of a distant dirge; the strains of music emanating from a funeral procession stretching ten years long.  Alone in that darkened forlorn place, each second ticked contorted into an individual eternity.

I suppose the morning sun would have found me sitting there, lost somewhere inside myself, if a bit of breeze had not surprised the night and drove the damp chill deeper into things.  Reaching the charred wood and ash, the unexpected night wind revived an ember that fought to retain a thread of life, long after the flames it fed were spent.

A smokey whisp arose from the small glow.  Framed in the deep darkness, the ember led my eye and attention to the wonder of its survival.  Its willingness inspired me to rise in search of dry tinder.  With logs, limbs, sticks and twigs stacked, I placed the tinder blanket atop the willing ember and breathed life onto them.

In an instant a small flame was born.  To its hopefulness I added the smallest of twigs the way Pop had taught me, before he began walking in a slow, unsteady gait with shoulders stooped.  As the larger pieces settled and shifted in the growing fire, for the briefest of moments I sensed his hand on my shoulder.  Before I could turn to him, his presence moved just beyond the fire light, nodding his approval.

Returning to the light that danced along edges of the wood, my father's thoughts reached inside me.  With the wonder of a little boy that played around the shack that once was, he was moved by the small ember's willingness to sacrifice itself; to move in the simple faith that the fire that now roared before me would have life.  With its passing, the faith-filled ember had taken the chill from my heart.  Its effort glowed brightly in my eyes.  Pop faded away reassured by the change.

Alone again, I was drawn in by the hypnotic flames. It was then, with its smoke, I rose and was transported to that far away place, distant in time and space, where men saw the world reenacted in the mesmerizing dance of flames.  On the darkest of nights, a chosen few could see the fire sprites dancing on the tip of each glowing, leaping tounge of fire.

Two nights ago, as the chill fled in fear before them, the fire sprites imparted a message to me just as they shared their secrets with the men of ages past.  Their confident knowing had reassured me.  Returning me to my own time and place, the seconds were no longer contorted and the song of the night woods echoed through the treetops.  

Carefully, I placed more logs on the fire, learning its way from a new perspective.  The flames grew and blazed their way into the magical state that fire sprites have not the power to resist.  They emerged to dance before me.  Momentarily stopping their ancient steps, the smallest of the sprites reminded me that each of us possess a knowing that lies dormant deep within until we awaken and breathe life into its possibilities.  He cautioned me to always remember that dancing flames of fire have, since the beginning of all things, given themselves to revive the souls of those who watch them with an open heart.