#133. Rekindle
Does autumn bring reflections and memories of what used to be?
Maybe it’s something about the waning light, the chilly air, or falling leaves. Autumn invites us to look backward as much as forward. Some things we remember are finished. Completely, appropriately, even gratefully finished.
But all of it? I used to paint. I used to dance. I used to travel. I used to write. I used to be adventurous. Past tense.
Somewhere along the way, we start speaking about parts of ourselves as though their stories have already ended. Sometimes, though, we might not have looked closely enough. It’s like looking into a fire that’s died down. It’s cooling, but scratch under the surface, and there’s an ember.
There is something rather magical about an ember. Give it some air. Add a little fuel. Wait. And suddenly, there is fire again.
Life has a way of piling ash over things. Careers. Children. Relationships. Caring for parents. Paying bills. Being responsible. Simply getting through the years when there wasn't much spare oxygen available for anything that didn't absolutely require it.
Eventually, we can mistake dormant for dead. But an ember is neither. An ember is potential.
One of the gifts of our third chapter is the opportunity to poke around in our own ashes and see what still glows. Not because we need another project. Good grief. Most of us have spent enough of our lives with a to-do list long enough to qualify as a minor work of fiction.
This is something different. It's curiosity.
What once made you feel more alive?
What did you love before you needed to be good at it, useful at it, or productive with it?
What have you quietly wondered about returning to?
And most importantly: what still gives off a little heat when you think about it?
That's the ember.
Rekindling doesn't mean recreating the old fire. In fact, that may be impossible, or not even desirable. The woman who first lit it has changed. So has her life. What mattered at 25 may take an entirely different form at 65, 75, 85, and beyond.
Maybe you don't want to run marathons again, but you want to walk somewhere that takes your breath away. Maybe you don't want another demanding career, but you're fascinated by something you finally have time to study. Maybe the sewing machine, guitar, garden tools, passport, sketchbook, or dancing shoes are calling from the back of the closet.
You don't have to build a bonfire. Start with breath. Give the ember a little attention. Protect it from the wind. Offer it something small to feed on. Then see what happens.
Autumn reminds us that not everything that appears to be ending actually is. Beneath fallen leaves, bare branches, cooling earth—and apparently dead fires—life has its own timetable.
So do we. Poke the ashes. There may still be a glow in there.
And if there is? Blow, gently.
