Fire and Wine

Where does your heart go in the quiet moments of a hectic life?

And where does it settle given the opportunity to linger?

To where do you turn for clarity?

And to whom do you call for calm?

Somewhere between the saturation of a morning’s commute and the crackling flames of an evening fire, I find flashes of tranquility and perspective despite the chaos and the chatter. At some point I find it all fades into white noise and I can’t see anywhere but where I hope to be. In the sip of wine and the soggy pants, I fall into laughter and collapse into a soggy heap of serenity. Because it doesn’t matter. And it never will. And it’s fun and exhilarating and I’m absorbing as much as I can. But as the rain creeps up the hem of my pants and my rubber soles slap another puddle, there is nothing but privilege in this life. And for that I am immensely grateful and wholly indebted. I can’t wait to be cast free from confines of the ladder, to linger awhile down the dirt roads beneath the banana trees. There, where the nights are cold and the sky wide there is a plethora of purpose free for the taking. Beyond the edge of the map, just off the grid, I’m pretty sure there is a life to be carved from the red soil. Because rules are meant to be bent and boundaries broken. And I’d like to live my life coloring outside the lines, with soft music in the background and a fire crackling in the hearth.

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