That's the way the story goes.

Counsel

People have gathered at the fire pit since before memory. The draw of the flame is ingrained into the molecules of our being, passed down through our blood from origins long turned to dust. Its life-giving heat has called us to come close to its circle. Family, friends and at times even enemies step into its flickering light to share in food and storytelling, drink and song, cheer and truce. It’s in the crackle of snapping kindling, the burst of sparks, the twist and rupture of logs, the steady almost painful heat on your face that both warns and beckons.

There’s something about the fire that begs truth and often in its cradle is where we can suss out the things that are real. Where stories and dreams and nightmares are no longer shoved to the left side of pretend. It’s where we can draw them out, let them stumble out over the ashes, turn them around in the sparks. The real world is of no consequence because in the coil of heat and trust, friends and allies, we realize that what is real isn’t so obvious. Words spoken into the smoke, the feeling of truth and rightness settling into our stomachs-this doesn’t go away. It stays, can’t be forgotten because there’s a warning in the air, a sense of being here before, of living this moment a thousand times. The feeling lingers because it’s real. It’s real even though we have to douse the flames and return to the cool of night and the unforgiving brightness of fluorescence that try to make us forget. Don’t forget.