Some sat, others stood, a few danced around the fire, faces gleaming orange and soft. A chilly breeze blew in from the river and I hugged my sweater tighter to myself, recovering from the flu.
The fire in the middle, bellowed with pride, energetic, excited, in youthful glee, even as it gets closer to death – to soot and ash.
The fire lives in the moment, and as it lives, it blows flowers into the dark night.
The flowers, fiery delicate things, to be admired by the person in the crowd who sits in tranquility, observing the eerily sad beauty of it all.
Looking as the flowers float up, spinning around with the smoke in wide, unchecked spirals. Hopeful, reaching up, glowing red against the moonless night. Often one reaches higher that the others, basks in triumph for a split second, only to spin slowly back down and get swallowed by the darkness before it settles on the ground.
No different from the other less far reaching fiery flowers.
While we dance, we worship, but we miss the lessons that can only be learnt in tranquil observation, but the one who sits will not know the joy of the dance. So we must dance much, and we must also sit in beautiful solitude. We must look up more, we must stare more, at nothingness and at the things that can only be observed in tranquility.