Firewood

As I stand here in the crisp morning air, the scent of nature surrounding me, I find myself immersed in deep reflection on the significance of this task. My worn hands grip a sturdy axe, poised to strike against the birch in front of me. It is spring. Winter is over. And when winter is over, so starts the daunting chore of preparing for the next. But this undertaking is not unique to me, no. There is profound connection between firewood and the generations that have come before me. This fundamental act transcends time, connecting me to a lineage that stretches back to the dawn of man. To the first discovery of fire. To my forebears that understood its value and harnessed its power for warmth, light, and sustenance.


I swing my axe, the tree begins to yield to my efforts. The once sturdy trunk succumbs to the bite of my blade. In the crackling sound of branches breaking and the thud of a freshly felled log hitting the ground, I hear echoes of countless springs past. In these sounds and sights I see my ancestors, their hands weathered like mine, their limbs aching like mine. Toiling diligently to secure the precious fuel that would stave off the biting cold and keep their families warm. Indeed, it is this hard work that results in the difference between living and dying. It is the difference between enduring or succumbing, between a chunk of venison and a steak, between raw ore and workable metal. You need firewood.


It is humbling. Here I am, a speck in the span of time, doing the same thing as millions of other tiny specks before. In this solitary morning in the woods, I find the entire universe. And with every strike, every thud, every log split, I am not simply preparing for the next winter. I am ensuring the existence of man, and each strenuous swing of my axe is a testament to this understanding: Firewood is more than just fuel. It is a symbol of resilience, of survival, of the steadfast spirit of humanity.


An arm's length. Or roughly the length of my axe. That's how long I want my logs to be. Perfect for my stove's largest chamber. I know this because my previous axe handle fit so nicely in there. That one length of ash had contributed to making decades worth of firewood before itself became firewood, consumed by the very flames it helped kindle. Is firewood the final purpose of all woods? Is the ultimate destiny of all I have rendered from nature to end in fire? Perhaps so. But so be it. The fruit of this land, the timber of the woods, it all returns to the Earth, does it not? Whether burnt in the hearth, decayed in the forest, or consumed by a woodworm, it's all part of a grand cycle. And once returned, whether as ashes or mulch, it will feed the soil that shall grow my children's firewood.