Through A Glass, Darkly
Sometimes on this morning page, words come and image follows.
Today at 5 a.m., the picture comes first–a spontaneous shot from my chair of the wood stove, the glass door cleaned on a warmish day for the first time in a month of unrelenting cold.
Why share such commonplace objects as subject? What does this snapshot conjure? Where does my mind go as I stare unfocused through the glass, every morning since the first overnight fire in October?
The only movement in the room in this early dark is dancing flame–what once was life going up in smoke. The warmth I feel on my skin is the giving back of summer sunshine and the industry of oak and maple.
That fact alone is centering and grounding. That image speaks as well as any of relationship to place, of what I take from and owe to this particular land-and-timescape.
I turn my chair to face the fire to see if, in it, like a conjurer’s bird bones or seer’s tea leaves, I can find my way forward.
Ashes to ashes. What light and heat may come in the interim? Words and images lay out a web of personal ecology that binds me here and obliges me to think, every day, about there. About them. About then.
This one fire in this one wood stove is microcosm, portal, mandala, a fragment of a map.
I can see it until I look at it. I feel the heat, that urgent something I should seek, find and put into words. I cannot find its source.