[Seasons: Autumn VII]
We fire up our wood stove in October. The temperature outside, relative to the three months of summer prior, is dank and cold. Nothing cures the chill of the change in autumn weather quite like an indoor fire.
The first fire of the season is a whole body experience. The cool tension of our largest room is relieved. Blankets tag-team with the stove, couch cushions become warm and inviting, and the overhead fan, set on reverse, provides a gentle, warm breeze. But one’s skin does not experience autumn’s opening fire first.
That’s the role of the nose: one can smell the first fire almost immediately. Last year’s creosote burns out of the chimney, bringing an outdoor familiarity to the center of the house. Our noses warn us of danger first, but they also sooth us when a scent is associated with a positive memory. The first fire of autumn elicits both. Fire evokes fear, and them almost immediately, hospitality.
One’s ears also experience the first fire of the fall season. From the crackle of the kindling to the hum of the fan, the woods stove fills an empty space in a large room with the liturgical sounds of the colder season. The stove doesn’t compete for one’s listening attention, it compliments, even harmonizes, with the sounds of home.
I’ve been to a home that played a video loop of a wood stove on the TV the entire time we ate dinner. It engaged our eyes, offered the appropriate sounds, but neglected to engage our skin and nose. The “idea” of a wood stove is not the same as a wood stove. Without the full-body experience, it’s a gimmick. My appetite for wood heat was not satisfied but intensified; it was not satiated but starved.
The same is true with the spiritual life. The idea of a changed life—even half experienced!—only increases our cravings for what’s real, embodied, practiced, and fully experienced. For spirituality to be satisfying, it must be a whole body experience.
