In the cold and the wet of winter, fires feel more necessary than ever.
Something similar can happen when we are feeling tired, demoralized – with a spark flying up into the night or a child grinning with unfamiliar daring suddenly reminding us why we’re here after all, what we’re doing together.
The weather here has been changeable lately, offering up bright days that seem far too warm for November and then suddenly lashing down with rain that pours out of apocalyptic skies. We’ve been lighting lots of fires lately, and I dragged the sticks for kindling and fat logs from one site to another first thing this morning. The tire popped on the wheelbarrow almost immediately, and I had to push the thing like a plough along the roads and over the busy London crosswalks towards the play garden.
I lifted the lid off the fire pit and wadded up yesterday’s newspapers into balls. A little rain was dripping, but if you let that put you off in London you’d never get anything done. A couple boys came out to see what I was doing, broke some sticks for me and then wandered off. One boy of about twelve stayed, poking…
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