The wood in our fireplace crackles and the steady beat of a fan spews out warmth in our living room as I write this evening. Regularly I take a precious bucket load of fine ash out to our compost; a special delicacy and topping of potash that I am told will help the growing in our garden as things warm up and spring comes again.
Who would think that ashes would have a sacred place through history? It is of strange comfort to me that they do. A place for us after the fire and the burning. Meaning in the left over ashes of our lives. Hope beyond hope in the grey and lifeless.
Seasons for the burning and the ash. Take comfort in those seemingly useless and dull remains. They too, spread over our lives, bring hope and nutrients of growth. Dreams destroyed and energy burned. The gift of seemingly nothing. Keep on going, leaving space to grow.
Before the spring emerges, a time of paring down. Appreciating the ashes. Leaving room to listen to that still small whisper, faint in our hearts, that may be God. Sit and listen in the ashes of these days.
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