The flames are lithe and silken, fanning from clean orange ribbons into soft, translucent wraiths in swift, curling gold. It is a miracle: that mountain dance of rich, pure colors sprouting from hot white ash, heart-beat coals and silent black chunks of oak. And its all tucked away, almost as if it were insignificant and normal, inside the tidy stove with its clean glass window, arched, crossing bars and cast-iron kettle breathing warm moisture into the air. But I know it isn't: Mama keeps glancing at it too--sometimes her knitting goes completely unnoticed for a few moments while she watches the sprite-dance inside the stove. And Chesterton is lying on the floor nearby, not even bothering to sleep on  the rug (anything to be closer to that gold licking firelight). But Daddy remains oblivious, I think, to the magic. For now.
Thursday night almost feels like the beginning of the weekend. That's a pretty good deal, when I realize that I then have only three full school days. Of course, it's not really that way... but it's a good perspective. Agatha Christie's life is almost laid bare, I have a treasure trove of things to work on during the next week of piano practice, Spanish will have a new beginning soon, and a new chapter of geometry is about to start. And it's all oh, so good. Sometimes I don't think like that--I am actually fully capable of feeling tired and worried--but right now, having worked a thorough, happy day and now relaxing with a merry fire and Following the Moon (a favorite baroque album) I can say it with a pure heart: life is good.
There is something unique and precious about this November. Maybe some snatch of firelight, kiss of cold air or shawl of rustling tawny leaves has lent me special joy. But I am more prone to think that it is, in fact, my appreciation for these things that has changed my attitude. After all, what is a glorious sunset if you aren't thankful for it? Just a sunset. I think it takes gratitude for it to be glorious.