Campfire Series, Part 1: The Ritual of Fire
The Campfire Series
There’s something ancient and unshakable about gathering around a fire. It’s where stories live. Where silence is allowed. Where we warm our hands and, sometimes, our hearts.
This series is a collection of reflections, memories, and musings — all sparked by the ritual of sitting near the flame.
Whether you’ve built your own fires or just long for one, these pieces invite you to explore what’s burned away, what still glows, and what rises from the embers.
Come closer. The fire’s lit. The circle’s open.
The ritual of a campfire, both silent and sacred, leads to a sense of belonging to a moment, to others, to ourselves.
Part 1: The Ritual of Fire
There’s a kind of quiet magic that happens around a fire — part sacred, part smoky chaos. Even in silence, there’s a dance: the shifting of bodies as people scoot around the flames, trying to dodge the smoke that seems to follow whoever dares make eye contact with it. The fire crackles and someone inevitably gets smoked out. And somehow, that is the bonding. We circle closer. We lean in and the fire pulls stories from us.
When I was younger, my dad and I would go backpacking in the dead of winter — no tents, just the stars and a campfire. Our nightly ritual? Strip down to our undies (yes, really) and warm each layer of clothing over the flames before putting it on for bed. One sock, one shirt, one puffed cloud of breath at a time. It was sacred. Cold. A dance of its own.
“The ritual isn’t just in the flame. It’s in the way we gather, the way we pause, the way we remember.”
I don’t do that now. My evening preparation for a warm winter night has evolved. But back then, it felt like a sacred kind of ritual, as if participating in this ritual would grant us the assurance of warmth throughout the long night. Maybe it was our way of stalling — of stretching out the last warmth and light before climbing into those long, silent winter nights. And I loved it.
Once I was zipped into my sleeping bag, my dad would read to me by firelight — the flickering shadows dancing on the snow. I remember Dr. Dolittle the most. I probably didn’t make it through more than a few pages each night — lulled to sleep by the fire’s glow and my dad’s steady, story-soaked voice.
Now, my ritual is quieter — just me and the fire. I stare into the flames, wild with energy, flickering with a kind of beautiful panic as they burn. My thoughts drift in and out like scenes in a plotless movie, rising, fading, asking nothing but to be noticed.
Rituals around a fire aren’t always formal, but they stay with you. They’re warmth and story. They’re the pause before the long night. They’re where we remember what it feels like to belong — to a moment, to each other, to ourselves.
Gathering around a fire for ritual and connection.
