What is it about fires that makes us feel so comfortable? Is it some genetic programming from our distant caveman past? Some still-overwhelming happiness about discovering fire?
We were at Connor's Farm yesterday- yeah, the one with the terrifying, "call 911" corn maze- when it started to get dark. And we noticed they'd lit a campfire. Then they lit another one- they were burning pallets that they must get for some reason- perhaps to ship their apples? I don't know.
But then we saw that they were lighting a third- and bigger- campfire, on the other side of the lake. That seemed almost nonsensical, done almost for the simple beauty of it. Who would walk halfway around the lake through the mud to stand at a fire?
And yet, just seeing it over there gave me such a feeling of longing, of unattainable beauty. Especially since we were sitting at our "own" fire on the near side of the lake.
What a beautiful, unnecessary thing to do. What a surprise. And what a great way to end an evening.