On tending fire

I’m digging roots these days. Latin, Greek, Middle German. I groove on linguistics, always have.

I’ve been tending the fire this week, at my lovely housesitting gig, wondering what “tend” derives from. It’s a Latin root, as it turns out: “to heed” or “to stretch.”

Contend. Tendril. Tent. Intention.

A rarity: my intention matches my actions. I heed the fire. I try to stretch the fire, using old newspapers, twigs gleaned from the dry brown yard, precious fatwood I found tucked into a printed burlap sack: CAPE COD FIREPLACE. I have to figure out where to get more of the fatwood, to replace what I’ve used. I have stretched firemaking resources to the max, being a firemaking novice. I am a beginner at flames, and the dwindling supplies show it.

Inside the sunlit house, the fire shoos the immediate drafts away. It is a bright, frozen blue day here in Cape Cod—everything frozen in place, except for the wind. The wind defies “frozen.” There is nothing still about it. While I tend my novice fire, I watch through the windows as the wind snaps the tree branches outside, grabs hold of the American flag and whips it hard against the garage.

I understand now that fire-tending is a meditative act, not just an act of practical warmth. It’s an act of creation, a constant present-in-progress. The fire is not quite future, not quite now. It flickers in between the two points in time, breathing in and feeding upon the chilly air that it lures down the chimney.

I watch my fire. All week, I have experimented with different stacking techniques, a little of this, a little of that. I realize that the men in my life have been the one to make fires, who have taught me what little I remember about firemaking. As I fiddle with the logs and poke newspaper under the grate, I hear W’s voice, explaining his ideal firewood composition. I hear D; I hear M, too. Voices from so long ago, over indoor fires in fireplaces, outdoor fires at campsites. I have always trusted that the men in my life will create fire for me.

I’ve done just fine on my own this week, firewise. Right now, my three-log fire glows steady and strong. It’s been nearly a half hour since I jabbed at it, added crumpled newspaper. My technique is not the most logical, not the most skilled, but I’m getting the job done. A morning fire: why not? I sit in my pink robe with a second cup of coffee, writing to you, writing to myself.

Tendon. Tender. Tenacious.

I keep writing, because for whatever reason, it is what I seem to do best. I say best not in terms of quality—although certainly I have my good writing days, days when I wonder who on earth put together that singularly wise sentence or two.

But I say best, meaning simply an act that comes naturally to me. Writing, for me, is another form of tending. Another meditation, another heeding—tending the words that flow and pool around my feet, clamor for audience. I sort and stack them like the logs. I shuffle them about, hope they will catch fire and meaning.

Etienne, a fellow word-lover, likes to read poems aloud to me. But he saves me the clippings, the scribbles—his own and others’. He knows I need to see the words on the page for the poetry to stay with me. I love the sound of his voice as he reads, but for some reason, I can only retain the words that I see. He heeds this, always makes sure I have written words to refer back to. He tends to me this way, feeding me beautiful, unexpected words. Just right, the words he finds. I don’t know how he does it. But it makes me feel less alone. I am warmed by his words.

I am heartened when you write to say that you are warmed by my words here. Thank you, always, for the words you add. I tend to the blog much like I tend to the fire. My methods are haphazard, at best, and each post insists on its own voice, its own peculiar, particular crackling and popping.

I know how to tend to my writing. Most of the time, I know how to tend to my daughters. A fire, I will add to the list. Yes. This week, I have earned the right to add fire to my list.

Tension. Attend. Attention.

I am present this week. It has been lonely, but I am present. I have shown up, I have allowed the present to be lonely, I have paid attention to the days and nights alone. I feel the tension between the need for attending to myself and the need for companionship.

My dreams have been nightmares, without fail, every night. I wish there were a way to tend to a warm fire in my mind all night long, to keep the shadow thoughts—so keen on destruction, on cutting me down to size—at bay. I wake up chilled and maddened by the nightmares, knowing they will insist upon following me around for hours after I climb out of bed.

And so back to the fire I go. I don’t know what else to do, to shake the cold. The act is simple. It’s warm. The goal is clear.

I tend. I heed. I do what is needed, one piece of wood at a time.