Campfire Series, Part 2: Tending the Fire, What Flames Teach us About Intimacy and Relationships

The way it dances and laps — almost frantic — as it sweeps around the logs, blackening them into charred remnants of a life once lived. Watching it, I’m reminded of the quiet, daily choreography my husband and I now perform in the mornings.

He brushes his teeth at the sink; I wait. I wash my hands; he steps to the closet. As he exits, I enter. I reach around him for the lotion. He reaches past me for a Q-tip. No words are spoken — or if they are, they’re few and functional.

It’s efficient. Familiar. Quiet. And yet it leaves me wondering.

A fire is mesmerizing. Like a moth drawn to its glow — knowing better, but unable to resist. If you get too close, it burns. Or it throws sparks that melt holes in your sleeping bag or your favorite coat. It warns you of its power, its danger — and still, you sit in awe of it.

There’s something wild and beautiful about that balance: danger and desire. Warmth and destruction. Just like love. Just like us.

But fires don’t burn on memory. When the flames die down, they lose their heat. There’s warmth in the coals, yes — but not enough to rise up and reach those around you. Not enough to truly feel the fire.

And I wonder — is that where we are?

Have we let the fire burn down to embers? Coals that glow quietly between us, but don’t reach far? Not out to others, not even fully to each other?

The truth is: relationships take tending.
So do passions. Desires. Dreams.
If you want them to stay alive — to remain vibrant, magnetic, and hot — you have to feed them. Fan the flames. Add fuel, even if it feels small.

Otherwise, you’ll wake up one morning in the chill, wondering when the fire went out.