storyfires

Because ... I like the Native American tradition of telling stories around a story-fire. And because ... It's in one of my novels. In that little world, every full moon is a Telling Night, where villagers sit beside seven fires and listen to the village storymaker weave their world into sense. Hopefully. Unless that storymaker happens to be the village outcast. Who happens to be a witch in self-denial. Then maybe the villagers just chuck rocks at her head. And also because ... Storytelling in the blogosphere feels oh so public sometimes, and the fire sets a friendly mood. Even if it's a fake fire. Imaginary can be good. We can pretend we're all sitting around a massive fire on a bunch of logs. Unless you plan on chucking rocks at my head.  And last, most of all, because ... Story is its own kind of fire. The best stories light up something inside a person, burn away the old, make room for something new, and the whole world suddenly looks like a different place

Here's a real-life story for a Friday afternoon. Once upon an actual Sunday morning, not too many months ago, a couple of lovely, polite, and very earnest people knocked on my door, Bible in hand. Earnest Woman: "We're worried about the disturbing trend of children's books about witches and wizards and magic." Me: (blink) Earnest Woman: "I see you have children, I'm sure you're concerned about their well-being?" Me: "Mmmm." Earnest Man: "We'd like to read you a verse from the Bible about the dangers of witchcraft, if you don't mind." Me: "Mmmm." Whereupon they proceeded to read a verse where Paul warns against seeking out witches and wizards who "peep and mutter." These people were so earnest, and really nice, I didn't have the heart to tell them that I, myself, had written two books about witches and magic. I didn't want to horrify them. I also didn't have time--I wo

Mountain and morning collided again today, The usual explosion Of sun over cliffs-- Never common, though quotidian-- That eruption of airy light-magma Flowing down the face of ragged rock, Of warped and stunted scrub oak And sorry straggles of spring growth; Burning, bursting The dry and the dead, Dredging out the dark corners Of the world, and of my head With fire and light Too hot in the soul for ordinary Bland plain or dull feeling. Another moment of light-fire And I might be transformed altogether But no, the collision is only Instantaneous Gone before I have time to take More than a few awed, desperate breaths And I'm crawling again, Back in dimmer air, With scraped hands and knees, Trying to remember, to resurrect Out of the droppings and dustpiles of my mind That one flash of fire burning Away the darkness-- Just a few small seconds of relief.