The current talk of an electiricty strike brought this piece to mind.
It was broadcast in 2002 on Lyric FM
The morning did not start like any other. I felt the bitter cold as soon as I put my
nose outside the duvet. Our house was
never cold in the morning. Like most,
our heating system swung into action while we were still dreaming, thus
ensuring we always greeted a new day in the comfort of temperatures worthy of
springtime in the Mediterranean . Not today.
Today I knew it was a raw February morning. My breath formed little clouds as I hurried
through the Siberian temperatures to investigate what had happened to the
heating. As I became more awake I
realised it was not just the heating but all the electrical appliances that
were inactive at 8am on this Sunday morning.
We had a power failure.
My two small children had followed me
downstairs and were standing in their bare feet and light nightwear, shivering
and wondering why there was no breakfast on the way. The house was oddly quiet.
My first priority was to combat the cold and
so I set about lighting a fire, something we usually only did on special
occasions, such as Christmas or when we are having guests over on a winter
evening. There was great excitement as
we set the fire and the children ran back upstairs to get their dressing gowns
and slippers and a blanket to wrap themselves in on the sofa.
“Can we watch Barney mom” they asked and I
gave a quick and simple explanation of electricity, which like air, only seems
important when there’s none.
“Well can we have our toast now?.” I was about to explain about the toaster
also needing electricity when I remembered that we could make toast at the
fire. Bread, butter, jam and a long
handled fork were assembled on the coffee table and I positioned myself on a
low stool at the hearth and began to hold the bread towards the flames.
The children giggled excitedly under their
blanket mesmerised by the flames and intoxicated by the smell of the slowly
grilling toast. Our world had condensed
into this small area of delicious heat and light around the fire. The only sound was of their little voices,
marvelling at this unexpected adventure at breakfast time and the crackling of
the fire. We were joined by the cat,
freshly returned from her nocturnal wanderings.
Cold and tired, relishing this unusual luxury, she laid her weary bones
on the hearthrug at my feet.
It was a precious moment of pure
contentment. One of those moments when
God seems to make a simple but very direct attempt to strip away the
distractions of life, distilling it down to the core. He then says very clearly, remember this
moment. This is what is precious.
Held in this moment of time, suspended in the
firelight, I am transported back to the days of my own childhood. I remember it was my father who taught me how
to set a fire and my mother who had first held my bread to the fire to toast
it. I have a moment of supreme clarity
when the threads linking me with the past, with my parents and grandparents are
as tangible as the flames which dance in the grate. I look into my children’s eyes and strain to
see the threads stretch into their future, to their fireside and my own
grandchildren.
