Fire brings warmth, light, and food.
So do ovens and lightbulbs.
But those are not the same.
There is something older at work in a fire.
Like the beat of a heart or the pull of a breath.
It works on a deeper level.
We arrive, we sit, we feel, we stare.
We know.
In fire, the whole of existence plays out before us.
Wood grown from soil—soil made from the dust of long-dead stars.
Transformed before our eyes.
It breaks down into heat and light, gas and ash.
Giving itself back to the universe that made it.
A story told in a dance of light and sound.
Next to a fire time loosens its grip.
Fire smolders, rages, and burns all at once.
Mocking the clocks and watches that rule our days.
The things that matter—family, friends, joy, and silence—
scoot closer while the rest fall away.
A fire draws us back to what is real.
Casting a light that holds at bay the thin realities we build and mistake for life.
No one is taught how to sit by a fire.
But we always know how.