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I grew up in a house that was heated by wood fires, one upstairs and one downstairs. My dad was the keeper of those fires until I became old enough to gradually take over that role. I’ve tended, literally, thousands of fires as I was growing up, two fires a day, every day, for many years.

Because it was our primary source of heat, I developed a special relationship with fire. No matter how much wood I might load on a fire at bedtime, there would come a point in the middle of the night where either the fire went out (which meant waking up to a very cold house!) or I’d “catch” the fire at the last minute and revive it.

My dad and I, between us, were pretty expert at keeping the fires going all night. It got to the point where I would somehow wake up right before the fire went out; it’s almost like the fire called to me when it needed my attention. I became very skillful at bringing the fire back, digging in the ashes, looking for that single glowing ember and using kindling and a bellows to coax it back into flame. (It’s a heck of a lot quicker to do that than to start over and build a fire from scratch.) I learned how to go to bed with the fire and sleep with it so that I stayed connected to it even while I was unconscious.

My parents now have a modernized house with central heat, and they hardly ever burn their fireplaces, but the first thing I do when I go home is build fires. I gently chide them about not keeping fire anymore, but Mom just shrugs and says, “they won’t burn right when you’re not here.”

All the elements of the Earth have something to teach us about spiritual practice, but for me, a great deal of learning has come from keeping fires. Today, as we begin our approach to the darkest day of the year and the season of winter, I want to write about three things the fire has taught me about spiritual practice, and how these relate to Touch Practice:

1. All things change
2. Intention matters
3. Hope and the power of positive thinking prevail

All things change

As a child, when I first started keeping fire, I would spend many hours gazing into it and wondering, “what is fire? Is it matter? Is it energy? Is it a solid, a liquid, or a gas?” I had a hard time reconciling the things I was learning in science class with what I was seeing. What was I seeing?

The most satisfying answer to that came from my dad, who said, “fire is the process of changing.”  Fire is not a thing; it is a reaction, a relationship. I was not watching a “what” but a “how.” Sitting with fire is sitting with constant change. There is only “becoming,” not “is.”

When we watch fire, we are watching transformation. Elements are being chemically combined and transformed, stored energy is being released, light and heat are created in the process. What begins as wood, ends as charcoal and various gases. In fire we witness the transformation of one thing into another.

The person who keeps fire, who sits with fire, is essentially holding space for transformation to occur, supporting it, kindling it, encouraging it, blowing life into it. A firebox is a “transformation chamber,” a space in which change can occur.

A good fire keeper doesn’t try to become part of the fire (ouch!) but simply supports the fire. Preparing a fire takes time and skill; lighting it takes intention, and tending it requires attentiveness and focus, but the fire keeper ultimately isn’t part of the fire. The fire has its own life. What goes on in the firebox isn’t about us, although it benefits from our attention and blesses us with warmth and sustenance in return. We’re not participants in the chemical reaction, but we can support and nurture it. Keeping fire is a form of partnership between two separate beings.

We can create these spaces for each other as well. Holding space for the possibility of change, for the unknown, the unexpected, with others as individuals and in groups, is a powerful practice. Watching and tending these spaces expectantly and observantly can produce abundance of light and warmth in community. Observing, supporting, tending, supplying are equally as important as participating; the fire keeper and the fire exist in partnership.

Intention matters

Striking a match to light a holiday fire can enthrall and nurture a family around the hearth. The same match, in the hands of an arsonist, can mean tragedy and heartbreak for dozens of families, the loss of homes, memories and lives. Intention counts. Fire is neutral; it will follow the intentions of the person who sets it.

We can set a pot to boil in order to make a nutritious soup for an ailing neighbor, or with the same match, wood, and equipment, we have, historically, created vessels of torture in which we slowly, painfully boil other human beings, often in the name of God. We are equally able to construct ovens to bake food for the hungry as well as to incinerate the bodies of our enemies. Same fire, same structure. The only thing that differs is intention.

One cannot keep fire without setting intention. Do I wish to warm or harm my neighbor, cook their food or maim their body, warm their house or burn it down? Intention matters. Fire can be a potent weapon, or a source of light, warmth and life. Sometimes the only thing distinguishing one from the other is intention.

So it is too with our speech and our actions towards each other. Intention matters. Speaking “my truth” can be done many different ways–with indifference and a hard heart as to how it might land on the ears of another, or with compassion and care, with a desire to help, not harm. And I have to be clear on intention at the moment I strike the match, not after the fire is raging. By then, the fire takes its own course.

Hope and the power of positive thinking prevail