The Quiet Fire...

This morning, as I settled into my morning rhythm, I decided to turn on my fireplace.
I’ve lived in this townhome for three winters now. The fireplace is electric, activated by a light switch, and I’ve always loved the warmth and glow it brings. But this morning, from the angle I was sitting, I noticed something I had never seen before within the crevice at the top where the fan blows: a small red button.
I wondered, could this be a way to turn off the blower while keeping the fire’s glow?
Curious, I walked over with a pen, nudged the button to the side, and suddenly the blower shut off. The fire remained, quietly glowing.
I laughed out loud. Three winters. And only now did I discover that I could have the ambiance without the noise.
It felt like a small revelation. One of those moments that seems insignificant, but really isn’t.
That discovery brought my attention to fire itself. The element.
When I think back across the homes of my life, from childhood through adulthood, many of them had fireplaces. I was taught at an early age how to build a proper fire: how to stack the wood, coax the flame, and be patient. I’ve joked before that being a good fire starter is part of my lineage.
After my divorce, when I moved into a small apartment and my life felt turned upside down, there was a wood-burning fireplace. I remember thinking how comforting it was to stack a little pile of wood on the patio. That fireplace made the space feel like home at a time when very little felt settled. It anchored me.
So when I moved here, even though the fireplace was electric, I appreciated its presence. Fire, whether real or simulated, has always brought me calm. A sense of being held.
Reflecting on the service of fire from the beginning of time, it was warmth and protection, a gathering place, a center. It was where stories were told, and meals were prepared, where prayers rose like smoke. Transforming whatever is offered.
I love an outdoor fire on a cool fall night, a fire pit where conversation slows and something ancient stirs. Or where I can sit in solitude, staring into the flames, mesmerized by the dance. Before I left for the Camino, I held a fire ceremony to release anything that no longer belonged on that pilgrimage, anything that weighed on my heart and kept me tethered to old stories. I trusted the fire to take it as a symbolic prayer.
And then this morning, standing there with my pen still in hand, I realized something else.
I didn’t turn the fire off. I simply turned off the noise.
The glow remained. The essence remained, just quieter.
That feels like a mirror for this season of my life.
I am less drawn to the kind of fire that demands constant tending. I’m learning to recognize the quiet fire.
There is time for the blaze. And there is time for the ember.
Both are sacred.
A Blessing & Simple Fire Ritual
If you feel called, here is a small ritual you might try.
Sit near a fire if you can, a fireplace, a fire pit, or even the imagined warmth of one. If not, simply place your hands over your heart.
Take a few slow breaths.
Ask yourself gently:
What in my life needs warmth right now, not noise?
What can I let burn quietly instead of loudly?
If there is something you are ready to release, imagine placing it into the fire.
No explanation. Just trust.
Then offer a blessing:
May what no longer serves me be transformed.
May what remains bring warmth.
May I tend the fire of my life with wisdom and care.
Sit for a moment longer. Let the glow do its work.

---