On burning your dreams

And creating happy little clouds

Moving wood, dear reader, is an act of love.

I love my woodpile. I love my wood.

I split it. I cure it. I treat it with care.

Each stick is unique.

I’ve handled most of the pieces, multiple times.

I know them better than the old guy at Tim’s who makes my tea every day.

I have a relationship with this wood.

These sticks and slabs all have stories. They all have imagined futures.

I can just see it in your grains love, you could grow up and be a lovely maple spoon some day!

But then?

Then I’m pathetic, useless and little more than a non player character in my own life.

I give up on that little creative dream.

I take that lovely piece of what once was a tree and I put that motherfucker directly into the fire.

All of this good wood - wood with dreams and potential - all turned to ash.

But that’s what the fire does. It’s always calling for a reckoning with the good wood.

There is a problem, dear reader,

We can’t save every stick.

We can’t turn every dream into a spoon.

Sometimes, the best we can do is show…