Gathering In to the Hearthfire

The Sacred Nature of Home
A Meditation in Three Parts

I.

The center of the home is warm, alive --
The flame is there, the hearth is there.
The primal nourishment of body and of soul takes place
In this sacred heart of our humanity.

Gathering in the cold and in the darkness of the year,
We celebrate the warmth, the comfort and familiarity of home,
Of origins, traditions, symbols of the season
Handed down the years.
We come to the feast of thanksgiving
For what we have in hand,
Accomplished,
Harvested and stored against the future need.

Yet for a moment we will set aside the thought of future --
Dearth may come, or it may not;
Now is the moment to give thanks
And feel the warmth within us.

We gather to the flame,
As we have done since our first hairy ancestors
Discarded fear in finding the devouring beast of fire
Might be controlled.
We tamed ourselves
To earn the warmth of ancient hearth,
To learn the magic of the culinary arts,
To bask and let the elders at their wintry eventide
Remember and teach. In the warm circle of light
We civilized.


II.

At the great cauldron of the ancient Mother God
All are fed.

The stones of the hearth retain the warmth
Of creative conflagration.
The season’s sacrifice is made.
Our feasting done, we nestle in the glow of dying embers,
And find again our strength in our communion,
In our shared nature. We reaffirm our family ties,
And repeat to one another the tales that make us
Who we think we are,
Stories of beginning, and of wisdom learned through vast
Experience of time. And all is relative to us,
The Family of Man.

From the great womb of the Divine Mother
All is born.

In the embrace of darkness, glowing
We are at one within the Now, unfolding universe
Within itself
In reflection of all possibility.
This is the body of God
Remembered.
Whole, full of all potential, in every moment.
This is the great sire of our tribe of starborn beings
Blooming to awareness in the microscopic shells of flesh,
As in the macrocosmic pulsing of living spirit
That ensouls the galaxies.
The Divine Father cries a single tear in which swim all the worlds
And all the words
And all the wills
That are or are to be, or ever were,
And in whose being we are born.
Thus are we gathered in, a family of one made all, made one,
Made each and every one, and all is relative to us,
The Family of God.


III.

Look back -- Home is the place where we are born and nurtured,
Take our first steps, or skin our knees
In clambering up a favorite tree. Home is our house, our street,
Our neighborhood, our school, our town, our state,
Our country … planet … solar system … galaxy …
Home is our source, our origin.

Yet home is more than the parental womb,
Than any construct made of rooms and walls,
Or clod of stone and metal, or of dancing gas and flame
With myriad attendant whirling satellites,
They with their own attendant spheres --
Yet it is all of these.
Home is the heart of Being.

Look here -- Home is the place where we may rest and feed,
And find our family, our loved ones near.
The feast is moveable; the nomad’s tent is home, wherever it is set.
There is the meal prepared, there is the gathering
About the fire, there thoughts are shared and new ideas
Digested; there, the cradle rocks,
Wide eyes reflect, and dreams are born.

Still -- here’s the paradox:
We learn, when from our flights we are returned,
That home is only truly known by leaving it.
What seemed at first a cozy darkness with a glow
May grow to be a great hall lit with stars,
Or more -- a universe of lights. We only clearly see
as our perspective moves away.