I made a fire tonight, as I did last night in the house where I am staying with friends. The fire brings light and coziness to a mostly grey few days where I am in New England. It’s a lovely small woodstove and though I have years of camping and practice building fires it often takes a bit of patience and a lot of newpaper to get the damp wood and kindling to start. It seems like fire has such power and yet in starting the fire I am always reminded of really, how slow things can be to catch on.

It's a useful thing to ponder here at the new year. We have big ideas and big hopes and goals for the new year. Our world has big challenges and problems and there is so much energy swirling. It seems like the fire of a new and good idea is enough to get us going—but we need more than that for the idea—the hope—the goal—the vision—to really catch on.

Whatever our fire is: we need to feed it and tend it. We need to watch its beginnings carefully and not let ourselves pile so much on to it that it puts our flame out. And not give it so little to go on that it burns too quickly. How to tend the fire of what is important to us—how to tend the fire of what we want to grow or change?

I think the challenge comes from thinking that we can do without giving it little bits of encouragement. In not wanting to believe we need more of something to make that change. I’m not sure where this comes from. But our culture has a nearly pathological need to do things with the least amount of support. I could even feel it building the fire tonight –Do you really need to add more newspaper? Couldn’t you have built this fire without that?

Increments of care. Increments of time. Repetition. Small acts that add up.

For example, I have been working to write ten minutes a day. I had been working and traveling and fallen out of my usual practice and I needed a way back. I needed the kindling, the newspaper, to ignite my writing fire again. And so recently I have been sitting with my coffee, and setting the timer on my watch for ten minutes and writing. That’s the newspaper. That’s the kindling. The writing isn’t the fire. It’s the kindling. It’s not about producing anything in particular. Or writing something for anyone to read. It’s the small act of what’s needed to feed and tend my fire.

And the tending doesn’t stop, even once the fire is going— a fire needs ongoing attention. Does it need more wood? Does it need more air? And even, is it time for this particular fire to go out? Or am continuing to feed it because I don’t know what else to do?

And understanding this is not just important for ourselves-- it’s also important for our relationships and communities. It’s about tending the fires of care wherever we can. Whether it’s with ourselves—or with others. Indeed, as I was writing this piece, the fire began to get low, and one of my friends added the needed log to keep it going. We have different perspectives and views: sometimes we see what needs to be tended, even when others can’t.

Rumi famously said that we should set ourselves on fire and seek out those who would fan our flames. And I think we all need to turn this one around—what are we doing to fan the flames of others? What kindling or newspaper do they need? Can we sit patiently with them while the dreams, ideas and hopes catch fire? Can we see the embers burning and help them reignite what’s important?

Fires require patience and attendance: the act of attending fully, non-judgmentally, openly. Paying close attention to what is actually needed. (Not what you think you should need—or what you think someone else should need). But what is actually needed in this moment to keep that flame burning—to keep the fire going.

And the acts are small and incremental. Your fires, their fires, our fires need more small things: more ten minute walks and moments of mindfulness. More kind words to ourselves and others. More check-in phone calls and dropping off muffins. More stopping and really listening when someone is talking. More returning the grocery cart even if its not yours.

And it doesn’t always happen right away. Sometimes it can take a while to ignite—even when the fire is going. You can put a log on, you can do some action and it looks like nothing is happening. Or worse—you’ve put it out. But look to the corners. Look for a flicker. Look at the embers. You can see where the fire has caught. You can feed it if necessary---or fan the flames. Or you can take a deep breath and trust in the fire you are tending.