The Tale of the Fire Pit and the Vine

Once upon a time, there was a fire pit…

It resided behind a renovated home in a field of wavering bluegrass where deer often grazed and families of rabbits burrowed near clusters of trees. The fire pit was surrounded by a metal ring and sat atop a small hill that overlooked a moss-covered pond. On chilly nights, it prompted friends to scoot closer together near its resident flames in a half-moon curve of colorful Adirondack chairs. From overhead, it marked the 4.5-acre property like the center of a compass where a midnight moon could be enjoyed at its most northern point.

It held the paper thin ashes of discarded letters, t-shirts and old photos that didn’t weather the years like they should have. It also hosted the burnt remnants of a pair of beaded wedding slippers, which, in their prime, were the color of homemade whipped cream. The size 8.5 slippers were once a perfect fit. On a spring night more than 30 years ago, they glided along a concrete dance floor to a Ray Charles song. Following the lead of their shiny, black leather dance partners, they peeked from under a ballgown sway of satin that swung like a church bell. The slippers, tinged with the vanilla signs of aging, had been stashed away in a large black trunk until they found their forever home in that fire pit… alongside a pair of size 12.5 Nikes that were worn out from too much pacing. On the outside, the Nikes seemed fine, but, underneath, the soles had been rubbed raw from friction and the years of pivoting on hardwood. 

The slippers, held captive by the blaze, had instantly crumbled, the flames easily engulfing their beauty. The burning had caught them by surprise. All the twirling and dipping on that spring night long ago were no match to the heat. The tired-of-pacing Nikes turned the embers bold shades of purple and blue as they too collapsed angrily into the fire, leaving behind the stench of toxic, burned rubber. The craftsmanship of the shoes and the slippers was gone in a second or two. The artistry and collective beauty of both pairs were irretrievably broken down and transformed into something unrecognizable. They were both gone in what seemed like an instant. 

Random corners of photographs that had escaped total destruction peppered the clump of shoe ashes, in rebellion of their sacrifice. Come rain or shine, the corners remained defiantly until early spring, when they ignited in a final release of surrender under a bright moonlit sky. Once set ablaze, they welcomed sheets of paper with handwritten intentions and prayers that fueled their collective fire to grow larger. Under the confetti of stars, the campfire pit was cocooned by love and conversations of the future, instead of the past. The fire burned bright as its smoke carried hints of sage and lavender into the darkness of that night. 

Several days of intermittent rain beat the ashes into muddy clay. Weeks passed and the heat of summer came. The charred wood remnants rested in wait for an evening that would be cool enough to ignite again. One day, a vine poked through the sculpted ashen earth. Eventually, it grew and climbed over the metal ring into the yard, sprawling like a boney green finger eagerly reaching for something unattainable. 

The owner of the campfire pit became curious as she mowed around the vine, wondering how it was possible for anything to grow that hadn’t been intentionally planted, especially in the middle of a fire pit where surviving logs were blackened from the previous burning. She let the vine inhabit the real estate around the ring, curious to watch its story unfold as brilliant yellow flowers revealed themselves. Then, one late summer day she noticed a round, white bulb where a flower had been. As the days passed, it grew and grew, transforming into what appeared to be a small white pumpkin. It seemed like a lot of trouble for that expansive vine to produce just one pumpkin, so the owner let it grow, passing it on her daily walk around the pond. It rested confidently in the tall grass for another week or so. When it was time to harvest it, she pulled tentatively at first, feeling the weight of it in her cupped hands. Finally, she tugged hard, and it came loose like a gift pulled free from the deep waters of the sea. She cradled it on her chest as she would a newborn baby. 

When she checked the vine again, she noticed two more pumpkins growing. A couple of weeks passed, and she saw another. And, then, another. Delighted, the owner eagerly watched the vegetation grow, reminded of her love of white pumpkins and the memories they held. When her children were a little younger, they would paint white pumpkins and keep them on their porch through Thanksgiving. They served as symbols of gratitude. 

One day when she harvested the fifth (and heaviest so far) pumpkin, she collapsed into the grass, the sticky vine with its bright yellow flowers surrounding her. She held the pumpkin in her lap, overcome by the heavy weight of her epiphany. The recollection of the Cinderella story and the wand of a fairy godmother that had magically transformed a white pumpkin into a carriage swirled through her mind. It was her favorite story as a young girl. She would read it up in a cozy loft that led to an attic of her childhood home. There, among the weeds and vines, she imagined her eight-year-old self and the happily ever after stories that had shaped her expectations in life. She had been holding onto the unhappy ending of her own love story like she held onto that pumpkin, clinging to a desire to figure out why it didn’t end the way she expected it to.

Perhaps, she thought, it was the Cinderella story that had kept her holding on. 

Perhaps, it is the growth of these Cinderella pumpkins that would help her let go and move forward.

It was that moment of collapse near the fire pit where the green vine poked through the ashes to bear fruit of something new that she realized this time in her life wasn’t meant to be an ending of anything. Perhaps, her happily ever after story was just beginning. Perhaps all those years of cheering on the underdog teams has prepared her for this. Perhaps her Cinderella championship run would be just right around the corner. 

She sat there for a few minutes, in awe of this new perspective and laughed out loud at the vine as if it was finally delivering the long-awaited punchline of a joke. The thought that Cinderella pumpkins were growing from the slipper ashes was comical, ironic, but also redemptive. Out of all that irretrievable loss, something new had been growing all along. Something beautiful was born from the destruction and surrender of something else. 

It was on that day of the fifth pumpkin harvest that the fire pit became a garden. More pumpkins started growing and the owner decorated her home with them. She invited others to paint and use them as a source of gratitude for the upcoming celebration of Thanksgiving. She was writing a different ending to her fairy tale, with new, interesting characters, including a handsome prince who invites her to dance to an upbeat song. But, there would be no fancy slippers in this chapter. There would be no magic wands. There would be no rescuing of anyone. There would be no expectations beyond growth. 

This would be a new kind of story. It didn’t have to be a perfect fit. It was her story, and she would let the ashes do their job. She would let them be fertile ground for something else to grow.

The End. 

The Beginning.