In my memories, my father smells like woodsmoke and Army surplus stores. With family, with friends, some of my happiest times have involved a campfire.
This fall I've been taking a mind-body skills class that has involved meditation, listening, drawing and guided imagery. Instructor Maureen Molinari has asked us to go to a happy place during the guided imagery, and more than once my mind has zoomed in on a campfire circle with good girlfriends. I feel warm, comforted and at peace while staring into the flickering flames.
Since I didn't make time this summer for camping, I decided on Saturday to drive up to Curtis Canyon for some of that fire-gazing time with my girls, hetero lifemate Mel and mini-me Desi.
Preparedness experts that we are, we brought plenty of sustenance, bear spray and water to extinguish our fire, but forgot one critical piece of equipment: a spatula. We made do with my trusty Leatherman and a spice can, but our burger patties were more like meat chunks. At least it's hard to screw up s'mores with dark Ghirardelli chocolate, right? Wrong.
But at least we got lots of catch-up time while mini-me was napping in the car.
When the adorable dictator decreed it was time to go home and see her daddy, I had to give in, but I put part of a dead animal bone in the fire ring as a witness to the healing and joy that had occurred there.