Morning Ritual.

I have a routine on cold dark winter mornings. A new fire must be kindled in the still faintly warm wood-stove. Its an act I repeat in much the same pattern every morning. I kneel and place crumpled paper on the old ashes and follow carefully with a sequence of thin cedar splints and bits of bark. The flare of a match, a flicker of light and a few controlled puffs of breath to fan the flames. When the fire has caught I add larger pieces of wood and the ritual is completed for the day. Its chilly in the kitchen, my bare feet have sucked the cold up from the tile floor but I never wear slippers: feeling the cold reality of winter seems a necessary part of the process. I love this solitary act, this creative moment at the boundary between night and day.