I've been burning things again.
There has been much fire this week. Fire consuming wood and herb-stalks and symbols of all manner of things I'd like to be rid of. I never seem to tire of it. Candles, incense, campfires, lanterns...I can't seem to get enough of flame and smoke and heat.
It's that time of year. My energy seems to ignite as the days grow brighter. Time for opening windows and cleaning out the winter-webbing. The earth keeps stirring, and the moon is waning through its last quarter, and I needed to let go of a few things and re-kindle a few things.
I attacked my main altar this afternoon, which is a behemoth. Brimming with candles, animal curios, rocks and plant specimens, potions, skeleton keys and ancestor relics, the altar was in sore need of a good overhaul and cleanse. I moved some trinkets out and took stock of candles and incense, and found seeds of some mysterious sort (un-labeled, of course.) Everything received a good dusting and plenty of love and thanks, and some lucky items were blessed with a shot of whiskey or an annointing with a fragrant oil. The energy of the space is bright, and clearer than it has felt in weeks.
I was able to cook my simple dinner over the fire tonight, the dusk falling so slowly, and I spent some time scrying into the flames. The scent of sage, lavender and chaparral drifted up whenever I tossed a handful of dried herb remnants onto the glowing coals. Every inch of me has been fumigated so it seems. I'm waiting a bit longer for my bath tonight, lingering over the scent of smoke in my hair. I fear that I would live like this, if left alone to my eccentricities - wandering the world with woodsmoke-scented skin and ash on my clothes.
There is such satisfaction in fire and its evidence.
My bones are warm, my spirit is enlivened, and the altar glows with flickering candlelight.
Fire Photo © Justin Smith / Wikimedia Commons, CC-By-SA-3.0