Fire Keepers

 I love the fact that before the invention of matches in the mid 19th century, among pilgrims there was a practice called fire keeping. In the morning, they would collect hot coals, place the live embers into a metal container or fire pot, pack them with ash for safe keeping, and carry them to kindle their evening flame. The Franciscan, Richard Rohr, knew something of this when he wrote that we open most to our truest selves by letting loving people rub off on us. 

Before I opened my eyes this morning, the smell of lavender wafted up from my pillow. My sister grows it for fun, keeps a tray of sachets handy, and sent me off with two of them the other day on my way out her door. 

When my sister-in-law came over the other night for dinner, before I could say hello, I was taken by the bouquet of pink, frilly edged flowers she held up to her chin then gave me along with her smile. A few days later, she led me into her yummy smelling kitchen and lifted a teatowel from two warm boules of Irish Soda Bread. I use dried blueberries instead of raisins, she said to me as she wrapped one for me in waxed paper. 

I went on an early morning walk the other day with another sister. She has a membership at Heritage Gardens - a nearby horticulturalist's wonderland showcasing numberless varieties of trees and flowers. We share a deep love for books—she’s a former librarian who always loves a good discussion. Walking and talking with her in such a verdant setting is blooming fun.

To continue this harvest, we had company last weekend and just finished the Rioja wine they brought as a gift. Bottled poetry are the words Robert Louis Stevenson might use to capture its lush, nutty flavors. When given by life-long friends, I call it bottled love. 

The other day I went out into my garden to find that turkeys, rabbits or deer had nibbled my second crop of Swiss chard to a nub.gamble I lost. Today my next door neighbor left a bag at my door: a good block of cheddar, chocolate chip cookies, and a large, crisp bouquet of chard. How does that happen?

I enlisted my bestie to go shopping with me the other day. I’ve got a trip coming up with no idea what to wear. I met her at a mall - a place I rarely frequent. While there, she picked out clothes, and examined their fit. In the course of several hours she taught me lots about day versus night wear, inner versus outer wear. While she flatly rejected some items, she gamely cheered for others. Heck, sweetheart that she is, she even brought me a pair of cool earrings and a hip silk shirt. I might have maxed out my credit, but, thank you, friend, I have a full suitcase. 

Love. As a parent, grandparent, teacher, therapist, friend I can be fixed on thinking that love is something to be given - that outwards pointing arrow. How lovely it is to be on the side of receiving. I love my people, but, except for close family, I rarely say so. Recently, in the course of lovely conversation, a good friend made that delightful declaration - right out loud. 

One simple phrase. One big invitation. 

This has been a rich few weeks: flowers, bread, walks, wine, unbidden gifts of friendship. Late-summer bounty: delight and curiosity, humor and attention, intelligence and affection. I wonder at the power of recognition - the challenge to let all this love in, let the power of it affect me. And I wonder at my readiness to do that.

So here. I’m saying it out loud, dear ones. Your generosity begets mine. Your delight restores my capacity for joy. Your freedom loosens my constrictions. Your attention feeds me. Your intelligence sparks my ideas. Your tenderness awakens my heart. Your affection warms my own. 

Fire most decidedly begets fire.