I burn a lot of things these days. I burn oats and wooden spoons and dish towels, they charring or going up in orange licks. I distractedly fill the house with smoke, sending up signals to anyone within leagues. I’m getting my own attention. I must wish to incinerate, having laid waste in this country. I must be praying holocaust, wanting to purify the land and the heap with fire. I step away to meditate and leave my body, and then all my food and tools are ruined. I may sometimes keep them, ignoring the taste and smell; I think I’m not so rich as to let go; it disrupts my safety to admit the destruction of unconsciousness. Lately, more goes into the trash. I am present in the interior fire, burning me. Send up my dross in smoke to God, let me be a hollow channel of light. Let me be present, empty, working, being, here.