Keep the Kettle Hot
Responding to the news of the day
The morning is soft, holding its secrets for the day ahead. The kettle is filled and warming, and I, crouching by the wood stove, pick at glowing embers with the poker, inviting flames to lick at the kindling inside. It’s good kindling, old wooden roof shingles left by the previous owners. I’m always mesmerized when they catch, the fire rushing upwards in a fury. I can’t help but regularly wonder, “These fire bombs were on the roof? In the woods?”
Yet the relative quietness of building a fire—even in the woods—feeds me. Yes, the fire roars, muffled by the cast iron box it’s contained in, but my spirit feels nourished. I sit, enchanted by the contentment I feel, simply by nudging pieces of wood around. Life won’t be so complicated, I think, if I can just tend a fire every morning.
I pour hot boiling water onto herbs (nettle, milky oats, gota kola) in my copper colored french press. Some mornings, I dread reading the news while I let the herb…