Campfire Sessions — 07dec25

Something about the campfire and the silent ghosts feels more burden than gift, so I slap my knees to signal that I need to get moving along as we do in the upper midwest, vocalize the requisite “welp” and stand. A few of the spirits turn their grey eyes to me, grant me a lingering look and then those empty eyes return to the flames. Not even a farewell wave then — the winter cold must be slowing them down today. Or maybe it is the daylight’s glare across the fresh snow that makes them blind. We gather in the late morning, although it isn’t without precedent. They prefer the glow of the flames against the backdrop of night, I’ve been told, but they will never turn down a flame lit in their honor if there is one burning in their area.

I don’t bother with any parting words. Not out of spite, but respect. I am mirroring their inclinations.

The warmth of the flame quickly falls away as I walk towards the fields just outside the wood. The fresh fallen snow crunches underfoot as it conforms to the clover and ridge patterns of my hiking boots, leaving a backtrail to the campfire it I were to get lost. I won’t get lost in this place, but I appreciate the consideration.

I walk the edge of the prairies rising above the hollow of the woods, staying close to the tree-line littered with birch and aspen, with young pines trying to escape the shadows of their forebears. My heart is heavy with my many other possible pasts and I toy with the idea that the smalltrails leading back to the forest might lead me back to those ways and dreams, but I know that’s not really how those things work, so I let the smalls creatures alone to use them. Still, it is a pleasant dream, even if impossible.

Of course, pleasant dreams are what ushered in my present dark mood. I remind myself it is time to stop with such nonsense and move on down the greater path that I have traveled far too long to go back from.

Back at it again, says Raven. You aren’t the fastest learner around, are you?

My intellect just barely exceeds the threshold of idiot, I reply. Self-deprecation is one of my many and varied talents.

How very generous you are to yourself, replies Raven. I have my doubts about exceeding the intellect of idiot, however.

Raven is sitting up in the branches of one of the taller evergreens at the edge of the wood. I spot them right away, as if that were of any doubt. They tend to make certain I see them when they want to be seen and I’ll never see Them if they do not want to be. They flutter down and land on the gentle slope rising from the weald, sullying the pristine white of the snow with their coal color, while breaking what had been unbroken white blanketing the hillside as they scatter the fallen snow.

Are you just here to insult me?

Not just that, They reply, washing their feathers in white as They roll in the snow. You seem to be reminded that those memories are not of this turning.

I know that, I say. You don’t need to remind me of that. You have reminded me more times that I can recount.

Indeed, I’ve told you enough times, so you should know that. And yet, my idiot child, you persist in thinking they are something you can still touch in this turning.

It’s just a passing fancy. Nothing more.

Raven stops washing themself and stares up at me. Why to you insist on lying to me? You should know better than to lie to me. I can see you right to your bones.

I—

You keep returning to those memories, Michael. It is time to stop.

But—

She disapproves, They say. I didn’t want to bring her into this conversation, but you are intent on saying one thing while meaning another and you need to know you must stop clinging. It was another wheel, let alone a different turn. And, importantly, She wants you to stop playing games of hope with yourself.

I sigh. Raven is probably right. They usually are, even about those things I think I should know better about myself than I do. I am flummoxed, unable to figure out how to break this cycle of clinging. A stray flurry falls from the steel skies and it smells like snow in the air.

Follow me, They say, taking to wing and entering the forest via a narrow trail. I do as I am bid and enter the woods behind Raven.

We wend around a meandering trail that seems drunken or directionless for a spell. The light snow from last night didn’t reach this trail, the canopy dense enough to keep the path to decaying autumn leaves, deadfall with scalloped mushrooms and hair dark moss, and the occasional pile of scat that I need to avoid.

After several minutes, we come across a frozen-over pond, protected by the dense foliage overhead. It is less of a clearing and more of a space uninhabited by trees in the water. At one side, there is a large boulder with no mates. There is a small hollow on the water-facing side and part of the granite forms a natural overhang over the hollow. Someone has placed antlers and bones in the hollow, garnished with dried wildflowers from the nearby prairie cast in purple, blue and red. Other tokens of honor are placed in the hollow, simple poppets of sticks and grass, a bit of the selfsame scalloped fungus growing from the trees, handfuls of brightly scarlet leaves. Just outside the hollow in the boulder sits an old log, one that has obviously been used as a place to sit by others coming this way. Opposite the log from the hollow is a firepit, which takes to flame as Raven hops overground towards the stone. It is a smaller flame than the campfires I usually sit at with the old ones. Enough to keep someone warm on a cold night, but only about one or two people.

Here, They say, jumping up on the sitting log. It is time to leave the other campfires you’ve been sitting with. At least for now.

Why? I ask.

Because She wants you to sit with Stone, that’s why.

I sit down next to Them. The old ones know a lot, but they are clinging too, They explain. Stone, doesn’t cling. Stone just is. You need to know that She says you need to go further back and not cling to the memories. You need to truly see and your pasts blind you. Your futures blind you. You need to throw away your eyes and see as Stone.

How does Stone see? I ask, but They are already gone.

I turn to look at the gathered offerings in the hollow, wondering if I should give something similar. But I am unprepared for this, and decide I need to think about it before I act.

I notice a crimson ribbon tied to one prong of an antler as the small fire behind me warms the residual chill from my back.

And I wait for Stone.