The Fire of Being There

You're walking up the mountain. It's windy and cold. You can hear the trees rumbling their leaves as the wind blows through them. There's a cabin with a door not quite closed, so you step inside to escape the chill.

The place is filled with stuff — maps, tools, stacked wood, years of accumulated living. An old man sits by the fireplace, his gaze lost in the flames, thinking about something profound. When you close the door behind you, he snaps back to reality and looks at you.

"Welcome. Come closer to the fire," he says.

"I was thinking about back in 2020, I was younger then. There was this big pandemic that forced everyone to stay home for months. We had to stay away from each other to control the disease. Back then, we all worked in the same place. It was common to see each other every day, have lunch together, and complain about traffic."

"When they told us to work from home, we all thought we'd won the lottery. No more traffic. No more dealing with people. More time for ourselves. It was amazing."

He paused.

"We were so wrong."

You look around the cabin. This man has been here a long time, living alone, away from other people. A true hermit, and yet here he is, preaching about the cost of distance.

He takes the tongs and shakes the fire, mumbling: Living is spending time with people you love.

"You've certainly lived a long life," you say.

"I've been in this place a long time, that's for sure. But living is different. Life has to be meaningful, not long."

"Why was working away from people so wrong?" you ask.

"Most of our time goes to work. So you must surround yourself with people you love working with." He looks at you. "We've all heard that at some point. But the word we always ignore is surround."

He picks up the tongs and meets your eyes.

"Let me show you something."

"This fire. Logs give you flames. Coals give you steady, lasting heat." He lifts an ember with the tongs — glowing red and orange, beautiful — and begins setting them apart from each other, one by one.

"What do you think happens next?"

"The fire dies," you say.

"Exactly. They're meant to be together. Take one away, and it dies. Push them too close, and they burn hot and aggressive. But keep them close to each other, not too close, and you get the best of them. Calm. Controlled. Warm."

He set the tongs down and looked back at the coals.

"I wish someone had shown me that back then," he said quietly. "Instead of just telling me."

Now get the f*ck out of my property.