“Accustom yourself continually to make many acts of love, for they enkindle and melt the soul.”—Saint Teresa of Avila
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He’d written the story many times, each time in new and subtle, different guise but always—at root and essence—the same.
He tried again in the morning dark, in quiet and calm of room as he viewed her still in sleep before the hearth, fire enkindled and restored to flame and heat upon his wake and rise.
She was beautiful in the light, beautiful in illumination and soft serenity that shone in repose of her rest and peace before enkindled flame.
She appeared as a dream, fine and fair in blanket wrap and cover low, free fall and drape of hair her only garment of high—a damsel, nymph, fair lady of wood in fairytale and fictions, only she was real, truth of the flesh. In witness of serenity, soft body swell and empty in take of sleeping breaths—like hearth—heart enkindled.
He wrote the story again, small act and sign of love that led to hollow and longing, desire for her to wake, and when she did, her spirit smiled and felt the pang, enkindle, his melting all the more.
She was lovely in the light, fair beauty illuminated in light and flame of stoked ideal, and in wake and welcome, eyes shone through green—gold hold of love-affections.
In shift of body, shadowing of smile—radiance returned to inner mystery—cover of blanket drew into reveal and invitation to the mystery.
Story ended.
Life began.
He rose in answer to the beckon; one in the light, one in the mystery, illumed in enkindle and heat of hearth and love’s unity of flame.