THE SIMPLE JOY OF FIRE.
I came down into the hollow and saw the lightly smoldering pile of ashes with a couple of the Smith's children gathered around. A day or so before, a large heap of branches had been burned in that spot and the kids were trying to get a small fire started from the remaining embers. The few twigs and pieces of paper they had were smoking, but the children hadn't yet been able to coax any flames to devour their offering.These kids are farm children and accustomed to fire. They've been taught how to respect it and on many occasions I've watched them keep small fires going for days. Getting this one started, however, had them stumped.I grabbed a small, flat piece of wood and demonstrated how to safely fan the fire into existence. Opal, the middle Smith child, took the wood from me and tried what I suggested. Suddenly, as if by magic, flames engulfed her piece of paper and the fire and the children were both off and running, excitedly seeking more fuel.Obviously, children shouldn't have unsupervised access to fire. But they shouldn't be kept entirely removed from it either. We as a species have a rich connection to fire––fire gave us warmth, power, and energy-dense food. We exist the way we do because of fire. I've realized lately in my own experiences with fire (which are daily), how much I enjoy having it be an essential part of my daily life––the gathering of kindling, the sculpting of the pile and controlling of the flames. And, like reconnecting with an ancient pet, it brings me a nostalgic brand of satisfaction to be around fire, to watch and learn from those flames––a type of satisfaction I spent most of my life obliviously missing. So as I watched six-year-old Opal rushing around for kindling, I was happy to see her experiencing something similar to what I experience every morning and night: the elation that comes from being in control of one's very own source of warmth, comfort and energy. Or, I suppose, the simple joy of fire.- Jesse.
CONFESSIONS OF A FARMER.
It is in these verdant days of summer that I am most often reminded of my profoundest secret: I have never grown a thing.Indeed, I have prepared ground, carefully and respectfully. I have spread compost. I have sowed seeds, cultivated plants and even harvested their fruits, but if there is one job on the farm I have never had the privilege of, it's growing. Something, or Someone Else entirely, seems to do that work.What magic. What captivating magic that part of the process remains to me. Seeds, many the size of the letters in this post, become food, flowers, or more seeds, making plants potentially taller than ourselves. And I, beyond providing the ideal venue, have nothing to do with it.I have such a deep respect for the forces that make growth possible—forces which science has so prosaically rendered into fancy words and chemical reactions. I learned about processes like photosynthesis in school—I'm assuming—but if someone had just told me it was all a mystery, or it was magic, I might have been in the garden years ago. We all might have been––out there hoping to catch a glimpse of This Allusive Being who reaches into the soil and massages a seed into life, then pulls its white string through the dirt and into planthood. If in biology class I had just been asked to tend a garden, then perhaps I would have left school with a greater love for, and understanding of, biology. Or if more churches spoke of the wonders of nature and God's creation, maybe more people would be gardening (...or going to church!). I'm happy to have found that love now, however, to have found a job working alongside Nature and stewarding its art, enjoying the fruits if its labor professionally.Even if I never get to do the actual growing, though, I've got no complaints. By becoming farmers we dedicate our lives to making sure whoever it is whose job it is to grow can do it well, and do it indefinitely. Farmer, assistant to the Grower. Not a bad title.- Jesse.
