something to give to the flame

at the entrance to aura, on the longest day of the year, a fire is kept. before you walk into the sound, there is a small ceremony: write something down on a folded piece of paper, give it to the flame, then go in. that is the door.

what you write is your own. a name held too long. an idea you have been carrying. a worry. a thank-you to no one. the fire takes it all the same. the practice is not to be solemn about it. the practice is to make a small, deliberate gesture before the music begins.

the fire keeper sits with it through the night. she will not read what you write, and you will not be asked what it was. it is one of the small rituals that distinguishes a gathering from an event. the room walks in slightly lighter, all together.

the longest day has fourteen hours of light and the shortest night that follows. between the two, a fire at the door is the right shape. it has been, in some form, for as long as the day has been marked.