The Last Fire

Wake-up feel: 7.

03:30. The birds start all at once, in the dark before first light. Eleven nights now in the tent. Head on the pillow, the ground holding the whole length of me. I lie still and listen. Then up, out, to greet the sun before the road into the city.

The last fruit day of the phase. The Moon still in the archer's sign, holding a long line to Saturn. Fire, and the thing that gives fire its shape.

A young fire flares. It crackles, throws light, asks to be fed, and is gone by morning. An old fire does not perform. It has burned down to coals — less to see, more heat, and it lasts the night. The flame was never the fire. The coal is.

I have spent a life mistaking the flare for the fire. Building bright, building fast, building where it could be seen. That fire needs an audience and a fresh log every hour. The other one needs neither. It holds what it has and keeps the warmth.

I am not leaving yet. In a few days the Baltic coast, the Bodden, comes back. It only needs to keep.

Seven places were on the table. The number was never the question. Now I am listening, the direction has been read. I am here to serve, with. The needs of the people who have been close to me all these years belong in this too.

Day 69 — Phase 10 — Language / Word — Triple Warmer — Beryl — Coelho
Gut Nisdorf, Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, Baltic Coast
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