From the Ashes

Campfires awe and inspire me. I love the way that fire burns away the old, dried up wood, leaves and undergrowth that builds up over time and allows new, green growth to emerge from the ashes left in it's wake. Not this fire, though. It is contained. It only burns what is put on it. It is there for light to see in the darkness, for warmth in the frigid night air, and for making the wondrous concoction of chocolate, marshmallow, and graham cracker called a Smore. The flames of this fire are not meant to cause future new beginnings, but they are meant for comfort and pleasure in the here and now.

The flames jump and dance inside the pit not unlike the revelers outside the pit. This night is for a gathering of old and new friends. I am comfortable in this arena. Dark woods, near a lake, within a stumbling distance of my faithful VW Westfalia, my home away from home. There is a clinking of liquid filled glass and I know that someone is toasting to things unknown to me at this time. Soon, I will make some toasts of my own, but for now the flames are drawing me in. Someone hands me a cup of something yellow. The first sip tells me it is Sprite, pineapple juice, and coconut rum. A little taste that reminds me of the Caribbean.

I had been there many years ago. Several times, in fact. The first time was on my honeymoon back in 1994. The place where we called paradise for a short time was far away from the true spirit of the islands, the real people who lived, loved, and labored to make the island their home. This resort was a paradise within a paradise; a blurry image of the real thing. It was a wonderful place, just not a clear reflection of what is really real. The second time was a few years later. This time the hotel was in the main city of Grand Bahama Island. It was closer to the real thing. But the invisible wall was still there, shielding the visitors from reality...

Flames are brighter now. Someone has added more logs to the fire. The warmth grows to a heat, the heat to a burn. I scoot my chair back and soon resume being comfortable with the flame.

Old undergrowth. It's what's left after years of growth has been left to it's own devices. The flora that grows and dies has, over time, been made into layers to provide nutrients for whatever new comes through. But most of the bigger plant life, such as brambles and bushes, turn into sticks that only provide sustenance after it rots. In the meantime, between death and compost, sometimes the beauty of fire cleans out the bigger branches and undergrowth that serve as obstacles to anyone or anything wanting to enter the forest.

I start thinking about my life. The undergrowth of unresolved issues of loss of love and rejection has built up around the forest of my heart and mind. It seemed like it happened so fast, but normally it takes years for this undergrowth to develop. And it only takes a spark to start the fire that clears it out, making way for a new life to emerge, one that will soon start a layer of undergrowth itself. But as long as I keep a vigilant watch over it, keep trimming away at the dead limbs that fall to the ground, the undergrowth will not build up like before.

The flames are lower now and my cup is empty. A hand slaps me on the back and my buddy is filling my cup anew. The music in the air makes a smile appear and I drink what is given to me. More logs get thrown on the fire, the flames grow, twist and dance and at my waist, my cell phone is chirping, telling me I have a text message from a new friend. A new friend who might have a pack of matches...