The fire is already burning
Dear fellow travelers,
A few years ago, I was always trying to get people together. For rituals. For campfires. For circles. For special moments.
Something inside me believed that something only becomes complete when there are enough people there.
Today I was thinking about the upcoming summer solstice. And about WeTripantu—the Mapuche New Year. The winter solstice in Chile’s “Little South.”
And suddenly, I remembered my own summer ritual .
For several years now, I’ve been gathering herbs around my grandmother’s birthday in mid-August. I use them to make smudge bundles and herbal wreaths. They hang in our home for a whole year—quietly, almost unnoticed—and accompany us through the seasons: through summer and winter, through changes and transitions.
This year, I thought I’d take the old herbs down to the Isar. Build a small fire there. And offer them to the smoke. As a thank you. Because they’ve fulfilled their purpose.
As I was thinking about it, I noticed something.
In the past, I would have immediately thought about who I could invite. Whether it could turn into a gathering. An evening together.
Today was different. It was peaceful.
I felt that if I stood there alone, it would be complete. If my beloved were there, it would be complete. If other people were to join us at some point, it would be complete as well.
The ritual sustains itself.
Perhaps that is one of the biggest changes of recent years.
I still love community. I love campfires. I love connecting with people. Maybe more than ever. But I no longer need them to feel complete.
I used to want to create a circle. Today I realize: The circle is already there.
The same realization is popping up everywhere right now. In archived documents. In shoes that were given away. In deleted wish lists. Nothing is missing.
The festival I had dreamed of for so long already exists—not as a place, not as a piece of land, but as a living space made up of stories, books, maps, conversations, mountains, campfires, and people. A place without an address.
Maybe it's the same with fire. The fire doesn't need to be lit anymore. It's already burning.
And so perhaps I’ll soon find myself standing by the Isar. With herbs that have accompanied us through yet another year—through goodbyes, through exhaustion, through healing, through friction—through life’s many small and large transformations.
I will throw them into the fire. And watch the smoke rise.
Not with sadness. But with gratitude.
Because some things don't need to be held onto. They are allowed to rise. To transform. And to become part of the sky.
Maybe growing up sometimes means exactly that: realizing that the fire you’ve been searching for so long has been inside you all along.
With love and smoke in my hair,
Jeannette
