I stood in my backyard, pulling twig sized branches

from the smallish trees that stood at rapt attention,

waiting to serve me.

Tears filled my eyes as I said, “Plum, dear plum, what

do your branches offer me today?”

Less than a quarter hour before I was plucking wet and

slightly tired and soggy wood from my diminished wood

pile.  April in Bakersfield doesn’t sound much like

hearth-fire time, yet today – it was.

I had told My Muse last week, “It is so cold and damp,

I want a fire so badly… but…well…I….”

He wondered aloud why I couldn’t have a fire.

“Well, all my wood is wet.”

“The trick,” he said, “is to leave some wood by your

fireplace so that it doesn’t get wet.”

I glared into my phone, massaging the skin between my

eyes so my frown wouldn’t deepen the lines there.

 “I know that, but I didn’t suspect I would want to

have a fire in April.”

Days passed and it was still cold in April and I still

wanted a fire and somewhere between the desire and

the implementation everything clicked into place and

I found myself scavenging for wood.  I marched into

my living room and plunked myself down in front

of my fireplace only to discover there was, in fact,

some dry wood available.

It was large dry wood, though. I sighed. “Great. Might

as well not have any wood at all,” my

facial-lines-massaging-self lamented.

I put together what I had and struck a match.

Imagine my delight when it ignited. I had made a fire,

in April, without the perfect equipment. “Hummm,” I

thought, “time to shift my beliefs I suppose.”

I sat right on the floor, watching the flames

lick the roof of the fireplace in great arching

motions as if it was an enormous, charred

chocolate ice cream cone, much like my favorite

fudge brownie flavor from Baskin-Robbins. I reveled

in my success.

And then it started fading. And my quick burst of

stuff from outside had diminished and the wet, soggy

wood had never gotten hot enough.

“Anything will burn if it is hot enough,” I heard my Muse

speak into eternity. Even when he wasn’t nearby he was

pushing my buttons.

I stood up, brushed off my black pants and marched

myself back into my yard. I greeted my trees that needed

pruning and cooed at them as I pulled their dried, shriveling

branches from their core.  “You give me so much, you

ask for so little,” I said to them.

I worked intentionally, methodically, quickly.

I rested my hand on the trunk of my little plum.  I felt a

twinge of sadness for not paying near enough attention

or gratitude for this perfectly colored tree.  “We’ll do this,

we will.” I told her as I turned and marched back

into my house.

The embers were crackling, seeming to celebrate my

return with more fire-making offerings.

Once again I built.  “Are you in this for the long haul?” the

fire place asked me.

I nodded. “Then show it,” it dared me.

So I did. I built with everything I had and then some. I

struck a match and sat back, smiling. I watched and smiled.

I grabbed my notebook and wrote.  The “too big” wood wasn’t

anymore. The wet wood was no longer wet.

The earlier quick-burst of flames was beautiful to look at

and was even fun for a moment, but it wasn’t a long-haul

fire. It wasn’t there to teach me, over and over, to whisper

to me when I most needed its presence.

It was a flash-in-the-fireplace.

This fire, this second fire, was the life-changing one, the

soul one. The one that I allowed myself to build hot enough

and true enough. The one that said, “Yes, I am building

for the long haul.”

The fire is gone now, except for traces of sound and

the scent still hangs festively in the air.  It left

a poem, too:

Sweet sensuousness of the crackling air

Grey essence climbs into my heart

Arching, aching, tendrils twine with my hair

Love offerings given heavenward

Lips humming unspoken melodies spare

The unburnable burns

The not there suddenly is

The too soggy and wet

Now isn’t and it all

It all It all It all It all

Weaves with the saltwater

Traveling from my face

To the Earth

In bewildered gratitude

= =

The sounds of these words nurture me, like the fire did

as it made my heart fill, my lips hum, my ears hear

whispers from deep within me.

Bewildered gratitude from the soles of my feet to the

top of my scalp from my heart and my breath and my

fingertips: it is gratitude of the unknowing, gratitude

for the smokey-grey, not quite being able to see shadows

that come into our lives cloaked in what looks like fear

and often, in the end, is our greatest friend.

My plum tree offered her used-up branches so that

I could have an “a-ha” and pass it along to you.

I am in it for the long haul.

Anything will burn if it is hot enough.

Somewhere between the desire and the

implementation everything clicked into place.

Thank you, plum.

Thank you, Muse.

Thank you, fire.

Thank you, bewilderment.

Thank YOU.