I named my blog Lessons from the Fire because, in the darkness of an early December morning, in my living room, on the couch, by the fireplace, after my walk of at least 9/10 of a mile (don't ask) with the dogs, drinking a Thermos of coffee one tiny Styrofoam cup at a time, staring at a computer screen as if something amazing or astonishing or awe-inspiring or exceptional or extraordinary or phenomenal or rare or uncommon or special or interesting or life-changing were going to suddenly and spontaneously appear this time, I felt really, really disenchanted with technology in general and the "Web" in particular. I thought, "Why do I do this? I'm so disappointed with modern life. I mean, I can Google anything and instantly know more than I wanted to know about it. I can send and receive messages to and from every corner of the planet. News, weather, sports - anyone, anywhere, anytime - not a problem. Shouldn't this make me at least somewhat happy?"
It does not. And so I look away from the orderly glow of the computer screen to the chaotic glow of the fire burning in the fireplace.
I wonder why I'm almost 54 years old and still spend quite a bit of time on cold mornings like this fooling around with the fire when I could be combing the World Wide Web for all its "useless and pointless knowledge," to borrow a 1965 Bob Dylan lyric. The answer is that fire is more interesting to me, often, than what I end up finding online. Still, I do my banking, pay some bills, and check my email for that personal invitation to dine with Barack and Michelle on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I thought I'd explain the title of my blog so that no one would mistake it for some high-minded treatise on the trials and tribulations of my cushy American life and unremarkable past.
The metaphoric qualities of fire to life are legion, and I won't pretend to be able to list all, or even most of them as an amateur writer. Besides, I feel pretty sure it would be a bit of reinventing the wheel, as it seems very unlikely that someone else, or a bunch of other someones hasn't already listed them.
Fire is primal, necessary and dangerous. It has the power to save life and destroy it. It can boil water, kill bacteria, save you from freezing or asphyxiate you.
Starting a fire can be both easier and harder than you might think. Fire only wants fuel and oxygen, but it wants them in roughly equal quantities. Ever watched someone throw a match on a dead Christmas tree? It virtually explodes because the combination of fuel (dead pine needles) and oxygen (the spaces between the tens of thousands of needles) is optimal. Loosely packed sawdust can be explosively and spontaneously combustive. Amateur human fire builders are notorious for misunderstanding the flash point of various materials. They try to light a large log soaked with lighter fluid using a single match and then wonder why the fire goes out when the lighter fluid burns away. Start with something small and dry and don't pack it tightly together. Leave some air space or blow on it. Gradually build up to larger pieces of combustible material and you'll have a fire.
I'm no expert about fire, but I do know a little. Fire is still teaching me. Like how it's good to respect simple, old things that have stood the test of time. Do it, but don't over-do it. And when it goes out, maybe that's a sign that it's time to move on.
10 January 2011
Ou
The title of today's entry is not a typo. But just as "typo" is short for "typographical error," today "ou" is short for "ouch."
I'm pretty full of myself most of the time. Admitting that I'm full of myself doesn't make me less full of myself. It only means that I'm aware that my ego's normal state is one of over-inflation.
My mom is 77 today. She hasn't been to a doctor in well over two decades. She's been pretty healthy, with only the normal aches and pains that come with having birthdays. She doesn't want to be told she has high cholesterol or blood pressure because then she'd feel like she'd have to do something about it.
I understand that kind of thinking. Ignorance is bliss. If it works, don't fix it. What you don't know won't hurt you. After all, none of us get out of here alive.
The other camp, the prevention camp, prefers to try and take a regular inventory based on (hopefully) statistical factors affecting mortality. They'd call my mom's reasoning denial, something that doesn't bode well for a healthy mind, body, or spirit.
I never imagined a world without my parents. Then one day 12 years ago, my sister called to tell me our father had suffered a serious aneurysm and was in intensive care at a hospital in western New York. We both bought plane tickets, she in L.A. and I in Phoenix, and met in Buffalo, rented a car, and drove to Medina, where he died two weeks later. I'm grateful that during those two weeks there were times when he was fairly lucid and I got to talk to him a bit.
On my 42nd birthday, I kissed his funny old forehead and told him I'd see him in a few weeks. Two days later, 25 February 1999, I got a call from my aunt, his sister, saying that he was "gone."
Gone he was. The forehead I kissed as he lie in the casket was not my dad's forehead. It was the shell he inhabited while his spirit lived on earth. He certainly was gone, and as far as I could tell, he'd never be back. Those things hurt in a way not many other things can.
I miss my dad. I've missed him every day since that cold day in February 1999. My kids miss him. His wife misses him. He is no longer here, and we must go on.
I talked to my mom today and she's going to go to the doctor and get things checked out. A neighbor helped her find a doctor and is going to go with her. I felt much better after hearing that, as I began to see how I was becoming a bit over-confident that my mom would always be here.
Even at 53, I don't want to be an orphan. My mom and dad did the best they could with who they were, and I love them. When it comes time for the next one of us to check out, I want to have been a little more patient, a little more tolerant, and most of all, a little more kind.
I hate saying goodbye.
I'm pretty full of myself most of the time. Admitting that I'm full of myself doesn't make me less full of myself. It only means that I'm aware that my ego's normal state is one of over-inflation.
My mom is 77 today. She hasn't been to a doctor in well over two decades. She's been pretty healthy, with only the normal aches and pains that come with having birthdays. She doesn't want to be told she has high cholesterol or blood pressure because then she'd feel like she'd have to do something about it.
I understand that kind of thinking. Ignorance is bliss. If it works, don't fix it. What you don't know won't hurt you. After all, none of us get out of here alive.
The other camp, the prevention camp, prefers to try and take a regular inventory based on (hopefully) statistical factors affecting mortality. They'd call my mom's reasoning denial, something that doesn't bode well for a healthy mind, body, or spirit.
I never imagined a world without my parents. Then one day 12 years ago, my sister called to tell me our father had suffered a serious aneurysm and was in intensive care at a hospital in western New York. We both bought plane tickets, she in L.A. and I in Phoenix, and met in Buffalo, rented a car, and drove to Medina, where he died two weeks later. I'm grateful that during those two weeks there were times when he was fairly lucid and I got to talk to him a bit.
On my 42nd birthday, I kissed his funny old forehead and told him I'd see him in a few weeks. Two days later, 25 February 1999, I got a call from my aunt, his sister, saying that he was "gone."
Gone he was. The forehead I kissed as he lie in the casket was not my dad's forehead. It was the shell he inhabited while his spirit lived on earth. He certainly was gone, and as far as I could tell, he'd never be back. Those things hurt in a way not many other things can.
I miss my dad. I've missed him every day since that cold day in February 1999. My kids miss him. His wife misses him. He is no longer here, and we must go on.
I talked to my mom today and she's going to go to the doctor and get things checked out. A neighbor helped her find a doctor and is going to go with her. I felt much better after hearing that, as I began to see how I was becoming a bit over-confident that my mom would always be here.
Even at 53, I don't want to be an orphan. My mom and dad did the best they could with who they were, and I love them. When it comes time for the next one of us to check out, I want to have been a little more patient, a little more tolerant, and most of all, a little more kind.
I hate saying goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)