Tending the Fire: How My Words Have Found a New and Gentler Home...

My words have always been vessels, carrying me (and sometimes others) across shifting seas.

In earlier years, they took the form of poetry; of love—soft, luminous, tender, and of the simple musings of the day, quiet observations that drifted like leaves on a calm tide. Then came the urgent calls to awakening—sharp, insistent, meant to pierce the fog of distraction and denial. There were laments too, raw expressions of the angst the world stirred in me, naming the storms I saw gathering. 

Those words found their way into many harbours: social media streams, print and electronic books, articles that reached across distances. Each was a voyage, a sending light forth into the world, often as the lighthouse I felt born to be. I stood as that lighthouse for decades—solitary, steadfast, like the Hermit of the Tarot, with lantern raised high. My beam warned of hidden rocks, pointed the way through darkness, guided ships I would never meet toward safer shores. It was a role of strength and isolation, a calling I carried faithfully, sometimes at great personal cost.

But the sea changes. The years wax and wane. And now, in my quieter twilight years, the calling has deepened into something more intimate, more restful.

The lighthouse has done its part. It warned, it guided. Now it rests in the distance—still there, still true—while I become the harbour: a calm basin where weary vessels may drop anchor, find shelter in the storm, or simply bask in sunlight on still waters. My writing no longer needs to shout or convince; it simply exists as refuge—available to anyone the tides gently guide here. A living journal, open to the wind, blending metaphysical roots with thoughtful truths. The audience may be small (sometimes just me rereading my own entries), yet that is the beauty: the words hold space without demand, offering solace under the sun or shelter when needed.

And even more tenderly, I find myself shifting once again: from the lone bearer of light to the quiet tender of the shared fire. I keep the hearth alive—not for acclaim, but so other hermits, other seekers, may approach in their own time, dip their lanterns, and carry away their own small flame. The light multiplies in silence, without ever leaving my hands.

This is the gift of the old soul; having earned its wisdom the hard way, it is finally permitted to enjoy it rather than merely endure it. No more proving. No more chasing. Just ripening. Resting in the glow I've carried so long. Tending the fire because it warms me too. Letting the words be what they have always been at their core: medicine, mirror, gentle companion.

If you find yourself here, in these reflections, know this: you are welcome. Anchor if you need to. Kindle if you're ready. Or simply sit in the quiet light for a while. The hearth is tended. The harbour waits:

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With love, gratitude, and a soft smile for the journey.

~ yours in ink ML