Every
morning, before I light the fire, I have to remove some of
yesterday's ashes from the firebox. My culture teaches me to think
about ash as the remnants of something, as refuse.
As
I scoop the ash from the wood stove I notice how beautiful it is.
There seem to be a million different grays and shades of black. The
shapes are as plentiful, from tiny specs smaller than a grain of dust
to larger flakes. I study them for a moment before I release them
into the ash bucket, where they collapse, fragile as a Snowflake, and
billow up like smoke.
I
am struck by this beautiful transformation I am privileged to
witness.
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