He tended hearth, enkindling flame in soft build from night ash and embers. Beginning with small strips of wood splintered from ax split and maul on inner burls and branch-interrupted grain, he stirred the ash to find the glow, arranging wood upon, and then breathing life as blow until fire’s take. Larger pieces upon the small, slowly, until space of hearth was full, heat causing sweat in the near and expanding into whole of room and home.
She felt the change, little by little, rise of warmth, then perspire of her skin, heat of the flame, cool of skin effect, winter air still in the room. Her nipples rose. She liked the feel. He loved the sight. Together, they were happy.
Hearth flame whole, he tended still gifting her a space and peace as she sat with pen and open page waiting for words to come. She knew that they were there, within and all around, and she would find them in her way as she refined and better learned.
She loved the home that they had made, the quiet, the solitude, the intimacy of alone, the way of evening shade in lightfalled shadow through the trees, the feel of the rocking chair in a slow and simple way looking on the world—taking in, not racing by, enjoying simplicities in life. She loved the open fields, walks in timbered wanders, way all gifted spirit peace.
She wanted to write the story so that she might better understand—to see the details that she missed when made focused into words.
She waited on the words, knowing they were there but right then, all she felt and saw was love present as the words that waited—within and all around.
Maybe that was the story, simple and plain like magic of place—a something words can never truly say for the know is in the living and experience of the truth.
Beside her on the table, she brought a desk calendar from home, one of the kind that—day by day—one peels the past away in greet and welcome of new day.
She peeled the past, greeted new in welcome of the words:
“I’m sure we’ve all heard expectation is the root of suffering, so maybe instead of expecting anything to make us happy all the time, we just need to prioritize the things that bring us joy—even if they look like ‘wasting time’ to everyone else. Then we could visit our happy places more often and stay as long as we like when we get there.”[i]
The words were there, within and all around—in morn-greeting sign beside.
Maybe that was the secret. Maybe that was the magic. It was here she found and knew her joy—her happy place—where wasting time, she prioritized what, to spirit and life, most truly mattered.
Love. Peace. Home, a place where soul no longer runs but rests in a settled found nowhere else.
She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay forever and believed that he would too, that they would find a way, if ever that she asked.
But the want, the expectation, even here—they would not be happy all the time.
She did not overthink, let expectation rob from the joy of present.
She let it be the way that it was, its perfect of the now. No expectation, prioritization of present and that which gifted joy.
That was the story. This was its tell. In time she’d write it right.
The words were there. So was love—within and all around—and while the words evaded, the love did not: it spoke in many ways.
Rising from place she went to him in greater heat of hearth in room—heart-flame of their happy place.
She brought her body to his side. Skin sheened in warmth’s perspire, feel of the heat built on.
She lowered shoulder straps in draw, high of gown’s uncovered show of risen sensed expressions. She smiled as he stared.
She loved the feel. He loved the sight, then feel, her taste—she as every sense.
Love was the story. She felt it then, within and all around as she came into her joy.
[i] Jennifer Russon, Tiny Buddha 2024 Desk Calendar, Dec 21/22