Early this summer the heat was brutal, and the mosquitos were relentless. I stayed
indoors a lot. This past weekend, the temperatures cooled, and after the sun dipped
low, a group of friends circled around the fire. Old friends. Familiar stories. Laughter
softened by woodsmoke and the fire’s soothing crackles.
It reminded us, maybe not surprisingly, of the early pandemic days.
Remember those? We reminisced about the PTSD of COVID times.
Folding chairs spaced six feet apart. Everyone with their own plate and bottle.
Conversations shouted across a yard. Eating outside wasn’t a trend then; it was a
survival strategy. It gave us togetherness, a fragile thread of something human in a time
that felt anything but. We made the best of a horrible situation.
Back then, the fire wasn’t just about warmth. It was about presence.
And maybe it still is.
There’s something ancient about sitting around a fire. Cavemen did it. So did nomads,
villagers, soldiers, travelers. It’s one of the oldest human rituals, gathering in a circle,
sharing light, warmth, and story. Long before we built cities, we built campfires. Before
we had walls, we had one another. I think back to my first campfires with velvet star
studded skies, melodies of guitar strings spreading hope and joy and the meaning of
life…
We don’t need fire anymore, not for cooking, not for heat. But still, we gather around it.
We watch it. We fall quiet in front of it. Because something deep in us remembers this is
where we’re meant to be: together, focused, unhurried.
At that recent fire, we remarked on the wildfires in Canada and the smoke that’s colored
our Michigan skies, leaving behind beautiful sunsets, and the bitter reminder that not all
fires are welcome. It’s unsettling, breathing in particles from distant forests, knowing
what’s been lost.
And still, we sat together in the smoke and heat. We told stories and we laughed.
As the flames flickered and the stories flowed, I found myself thinking not just about our
memories, but about all the stories still waiting to be shared… stories held by those
whose lives have stretched across generations.
Our sages. Our elders. Especially those living at JSL, who carry entire libraries of lived
experience: war and peace, immigration, childhoods shaped by different worlds,
resilience through wars, pandemics, and personal loss, and moments of joy and growth
along the way.
Sitting with the residents, even without a literal fire, feels a lot like gathering around one.
Their stories warm us with memory and meaning, illuminating not just the past, but who
we are today.
So, whether we’re around a campfire or a kitchen table sharing a cupa, we can pause.
Listen. Reflect. Let the moment hold us. Think of those who came before, and if we’re
lucky enough to be near someone who’s lived a long life, ask them for a story, and let it
rise like smoke and settle into our hearts.
If you haven’t yet sat with a resident just to hear a story, take the time and come visit or
volunteer with us. You’ll walk away warmer and wiser than when you arrived.
Shabbat Shalom
