Monthly Archives: December 2014

wet and comfortable

I need a wood fire for something more than warmth today. The storm brought to us by the Pineapple Express weather front is dumping buckets of rain steadily all day and night, but without cold temperatures. Last night as Mr. Glad and I were decorating our Christmas tree we actually got way too hot from the blaze I had going — of course that just gave us an excuse to go outdoors and cool off on the front steps, and smell the rain.

This morning is just as warm, but after discussing the principles of Want vs. Need with myself, also covering the question of Wastefulness, I came to some conclusions.

1) If the fire in our woodstove puts out more heat than we need, we can leave some windows open to the music of raindrops and puddles, a concert we have been longing to attend for what seems like ages.

2) If I have the soul-nourishing comfort of a wood fire to keep me busy and to remind me of the goodness of God and our life here on earth, I won’t feel the need to fortify myself with the cookies I am planning to bake today. If those cookies were to go to my waist it would surely be a waste!

3) I’m reminded of the need to resist the exaltation of the principles of Efficiency and Economy. What may look to some people like waste of resources might be a very wise choice. Besides, I don’t live my life by principles but by the Life of God.

I wish I could take a picture of the sounds and smells around me this moment, but I’ll have to make do with one from my files, from a time when we had not only a toasty fire, but sweet cats on the hearth.

zoe by fire

Dampness is married to gravity.

Lingering in Happiness

After rain after many days without rain,
It stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear — but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel;

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.

–Mary Oliver