the embers linger

Still on the day after even covered with snow the bed of coals so hot and deep and vital. We burn the last magical log, log of fire blessed by Bridget, in our woodstove, hearth of heat for generations of people in this fine home.
tending fires. the fires of our hearts and feet,
the inspiration of the next breath, the glow of the gods.

fires of color. good fires. the many oranges.
Melting snow becomes frost.

Fluid brook sings softly, once again audible through the dissolving ice.

 

Bridget, insider friend, the many voices of greatness urging us on. Her keening cry -clarion, song, insight- as translator.

So much smoke, unintentional purifier as eyes weep uncontrollably filled. Crying without sadness or stopping.

Started with local egg cartons and wooden orange containers and sticks from inside and leftover from Yule and ringed with the evergreen bough which this past season ringed our entrance, the fire caught ablaze.

Feeding the flame and tending the fire is a dance of timing and balance. Dry and split and hot and damp. At once strong and hot and then without warning burnt down. Stacking and gently adding wood, from the outside pile or the one in. Meditative pacing back and forth-stoke the woodstove, bring out wood from inside, haul a few back.

repeat.
Keep both fires going.
  The split wood made all the difference, opening more surface area to burn and to make coals. Once hot enough most logs will burn, but the slivers will always catch.
    
Setting up for the 3rd fire, our kitchen hearth, to welcome Bridget in. Welcome as honoring and offering gratitude;  setting up and cleaning as sacrifice.
The reverent arts of hosting and guesting and ghosting.

Bridget, goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft.
Make our words sweet, help us to express
our authenticity, guide our hands to make.
Creative fire inside support this incubation.
Help us prepare for the now of Spring.

The heat from the fires taken in.