fan into flame


Dear Ruthi,

Last night I wanted to write to you from a thin place, that sacred space I find we so often occupy together. I lit the rack of candles inspired by Day 2’s burn and thought of the “sadness fire” at Brad & Kristen’s and all the things I chose to burn that night. I said a rosary, out loud, and thought long and hard about measured breathing and my father and my childhood and my mixed and varied feelings about this ritual and his death. I reread Day 3 and sat with paper and pen waiting and waiting for the monkeymind to come out.

I reread your letter, and my notes from Gilead, and Elle Luna’s Medium post you sent me ages ago. And the silver strands hung there, right on my computer screen, parallel text, as I toggled between tabs on Chrome…

You: “and i am trying to trust the Luminous Web.”

Elle Luna: “…when we choose Must, we are no longer looking for inspiration out there. Instead, we are listening to our calling from within, from some luminous, mysterious place.”

Gilead: “What have I done? What does it mean?” That was a question that came to me often, not because I felt less than certain I had done something that did mean something, but because no matter how much I thought and read and prayed, I felt outside the mystery of it.”

I don’t like being outside the mystery of it. Nor do I like being stuck in the middle of it, suspended and waiting for the spider to reveal. Last night felt like both. 

And I had no words for the great, full day I’d had. I may, or may not, have:

– engaged in a cheering war between the parents of the two teams: our Wildfire and The Devils

– rung a loud, metal (and very therapeutic) cow bell, like a crazy woman 

– lost my voice screaming – I mean cheering 

– banged on the glass 

– fell for the town of Forest where they send a Timmy’s truck with complementary coffee and hot chocolate to the arena and where the woman working at the grocery store just happens to be a ringette grandma and lets Av beam her victory smile while they chat about Provincials

– passed the ringette baton to Ben, kissed him, hugged him and headed for home

– listened to Juicy Wiggle on repeat and full volume for most of the 2-hour drive while dancing in the drivers seat

– got stuck in traffic and snow squalls and pulled in the driveway just as E&C were opening the garage door getting home from school (that’s cutting it close)

– fell asleep in the bathtub 

– knowingly fed the kids pasta for the second day in a row

– posted a silly photo of us on the site without your permission

– and stayed up much too late in a string of early mornings trying to find the words to match the feeling of watching the fluidity of flames dancing on top of candles in the dark.

With love,


ps And one more from Gilead with fanning flames on my mind “In the spirit of Christian forgiveness very becoming to men of the cloth, and to father and son, they buried their differences. It must be said, however, that they buried them not very deeply, and perhaps more as one would bank a fire than smother it.”


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