tending fire
It’s January, which means there are still three to four more months of winter in Montana. Chema is away, so tending to the wood stove is all on me for the time being. And though the days have been warmer recently (unusually so), the temperature still drops low enough in the house at night that starting a fire in the stove is a necessity of the morning.
There are so many joys in a wood stove that I didn’t expect—the smell of first-lit wood, the crackle of kindling beginning to catch. It feels primal, inherited, written in our DNA, that spark of knowing that, as the flames catch, warmth will come at least this one more time.
The logs we split back in the fall are too big for the fires of warmer days, so I’ve begun splitting wood. Each afternoon, I head into the backyard as the last sunlight starts to disappear (4:30 pm) and split a stack to bring inside for the morning. Splitting wood is its own satisfaction. The first time I tried, I hacked and hewed at a log (sorry log), missing each time, and nearly hewing my leg off instead. Beads of sweat accumulated with my frustration. I took a breath, thought of all the women who split wood every winter out of necessity, stabilized my core, swung high, and grinned as the splitter came down squarely and the log split cleanly in two. Like anything, it becomes easier with repetition.
In the mornings, I rise, make my coffee, shiver my way to the stove. Use the poker to even out the ash. Lay two logs. Add smaller logs on top. Use the hatchet to split the small pieces into even smaller pieces. Hope I’m not waking the neighbors. Hope they’ll understand. I’ve gotten to where (most mornings) I only need one match and no paper to light the fire, a testament to how dry the wood is more than any fire-making prowess.
Each morning, I sit with the fire to make sure it’s really going to catch. Some mornings, I trust it has and move to the couch to journal, only to realize it’s smoldered out and start the process all over again. Other mornings, I don’t trust it enough, and open and close the door to regulate air flow, over-tending it…until it smolders out and I start the process all over again.
We think of fire as all strength and fury, but in its early stages, fire is tender and delicate. Ooooh yep there’s a pun there (tinder, tender ... ??) Like tending anything, I suppose—soil, a garden, the hearts of small children—a light touch works best. We choke something out with too much attention—over-watched, over-nourished, over-controlled, we smother the flame. But under-nourished or under-tended, the spark never has a chance to light.
These days, I sit in front of the fire with my journal, supervising, but just barely. The writing is a good way to distract myself from over-tending. Because just when I’m about to go check on it—right after I finish this sentence—it catches. And I remember that fire, too, is at its darkest in the moment before it roars to life.