Don't bring fire into this. It sanctifies you.
I know. He baptized me in it last night, a graceful trip around my being with a tiny singular flame. A humble consecration, a reminder of how we use that fire to connect, to identify. To breathe.
He is using the fire today not to teach but to warm himself. His favorite sweater is no match for the heavy rain and so flannel shirts with waffleknit layers take over and a heavy element jacket on top were grudgingly applied, slowly and with disdain.
He and some of the others were out late last night bringing the camper back to the house, away from the edge of the cliff. They moved all my flowerpots up under the overhang by the patio doors and brought the telescope in. All of the pool chairs have been stored in the garage and PJ is already fretting because his precious jeep had to be put outside in this weather. His jeep weighs far more than the big chaises, which weighed a fair bit themselves, towed two at a time on a trailer pulled behind Ben's truck.
We're like some sort of incredible, dysfunctional resort.
The storms are here. All of them. Psychic and environment-based. Emotional and physical too. I was told if I wanted to do anything online to hurry up. So here I am.
Caleb missed all the fun. He's gone to the East Coast again for a bit to get away from
Loch touches my face. I wonder if I could burn your brain down to nothing like the farmers do to their fields, so you could grow back new and unscathed.
Let's try it and see.
But he just stared at me for a moment in surprise at calling his bluff. Then he put his jacket back on and went outside to finish up.