It’s all the rest of a campfire after a long day.

It’s the warmth of a candle in the window at night.

It’s building a fire in the old wood stove on a cold winter morning or making cowboy coffee after chopping wood.

It’s all knowing you chopped the wood, you stacked it, and now you’re here with it.

Most of the year I’m thinking about planting things. But when the air turns cool and soft, I get itchy for shoring up and battening down the hatches, hibernating like a bear with good food, and a good fire, the quiet ritual that has purpose with everything done.

Gather wood for winter.

Chop wood to start a fire.

Start a fire to stay warm.

The whole point is that’s work. It’s the purpose behind it all.

Now we’re in the depths of winter, all this snow on the ground, calming the landscape, making the golden light more golden, the blue and the stars and the moon crisp and clear.

Winter cold makes fires warmth all the warmer, makes the waiting take a little less time, makes the heart slow, makes thoughts gentle, gives the hands purpose.

And it’s all about the waiting, isn’t it? The rest of winter, the dreaming of spring a sweeter dream because of it.

Want to buy me a coffee?

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