I used to hunt woodland caribou down around Sourdough in February. Daytime temperatures often -20°, night's -40°s. I remember once, only once, I left my bunny boots outside my sleeping bag, pulling them into the bag to warn them up a half hour or so before rising. I found , when I faced the day, how amazingly well insulated those boots are, even after half an hour warming them up the insides were cold enough to push me into hypothermia.
I spent some time fumbling trying to get a fire started. Finally I poured some gasoline on it (At -40° gasoline burns more like kerosene.) and basked in those beautiful flames bringing my core and extremities temperatures back to normal.
I know I'm stretching your metaphor a bit but sometimes you really need to be willing to throw a little gas on the fire.
Yeouch. I think I slept with my boots in the tent with me when we camped in the deep cold. And I've tried to light a fire while darn near hypothermic, so this is absolutely the case - when you're that bad, you throw everything you have at it, or you die.
I never really considered myself creative aside from occasional bursts at random times (school projects and such). I always wanted to be creative, but I had it in my head that it was simply a hobby. And it wasn't as if I didn't have great examples. One grandmother was a wonderful painter and musician, my mother loved and excelled at photography.
As for me, it's only been five years since I figured out that I can write and do it pretty well. I don't know if the fire was banked from those random bits in school, or if I managed to create a small flame that somehow maintained itself from then until now. Either way, I'm grateful I found it. And I'm grateful to you, Cedar, for helping me to fan those flames.
Thank you. Going back to November, I penned an 8k short, which was accepted into an upcoming anthology. Another 8k was submitted for another, and I am currently working on a 6k for a third. Not to mention, I edited two novels and submitted them, one from my father and one from myself. April 21 will be one year since Father went to be with the Lord. Under normal circumstances, I would be producing 4x this amount. The wood is wet enough to keep me choking on the smoke.
This post helps. It evoked emotion, but I'm learning to turn those dark feelings into perseverance. Again, thank you. The encouragement is always welcome.
I used to hunt woodland caribou down around Sourdough in February. Daytime temperatures often -20°, night's -40°s. I remember once, only once, I left my bunny boots outside my sleeping bag, pulling them into the bag to warn them up a half hour or so before rising. I found , when I faced the day, how amazingly well insulated those boots are, even after half an hour warming them up the insides were cold enough to push me into hypothermia.
I spent some time fumbling trying to get a fire started. Finally I poured some gasoline on it (At -40° gasoline burns more like kerosene.) and basked in those beautiful flames bringing my core and extremities temperatures back to normal.
I know I'm stretching your metaphor a bit but sometimes you really need to be willing to throw a little gas on the fire.
Yeouch. I think I slept with my boots in the tent with me when we camped in the deep cold. And I've tried to light a fire while darn near hypothermic, so this is absolutely the case - when you're that bad, you throw everything you have at it, or you die.
I never really considered myself creative aside from occasional bursts at random times (school projects and such). I always wanted to be creative, but I had it in my head that it was simply a hobby. And it wasn't as if I didn't have great examples. One grandmother was a wonderful painter and musician, my mother loved and excelled at photography.
As for me, it's only been five years since I figured out that I can write and do it pretty well. I don't know if the fire was banked from those random bits in school, or if I managed to create a small flame that somehow maintained itself from then until now. Either way, I'm grateful I found it. And I'm grateful to you, Cedar, for helping me to fan those flames.
Thank you. Going back to November, I penned an 8k short, which was accepted into an upcoming anthology. Another 8k was submitted for another, and I am currently working on a 6k for a third. Not to mention, I edited two novels and submitted them, one from my father and one from myself. April 21 will be one year since Father went to be with the Lord. Under normal circumstances, I would be producing 4x this amount. The wood is wet enough to keep me choking on the smoke.
This post helps. It evoked emotion, but I'm learning to turn those dark feelings into perseverance. Again, thank you. The encouragement is always welcome.
May his memory live on in story.
We keep on, because there is always more life to life, and joy to find.
Most definitely.
Beautiful essay, Cedar. I'm trying to get back to my little fiber business after Covid destroyed it, you give me hope.
it's so difficult to rebuild, but it can be done! It may not be the same as it was, but it will be no less beautiful.
Thank you