Kindling
I recently stumbled across writer Jennifer Shoop (Magpie by Jen Shoop). One of her Instagram posts was a list of discoveries that had sparked something within her, causing her to lean into or pursue an new interest in some fashion. She called them “Kindling Discoveries”. I was immediately smitten with her first entry: Jo March.
I’ve always adored Jo. Her gumption and earnestness. Her desire to be something more than what was anticipated she’d become, more than what was relegated to her by society. I wished desperately for a relationship with my sisters like that which Jo shared with Meg, Beth, and Amy. I wished desperately for a mother like Marmee, steady, guiding, patient, present. I lost myself in the movie adaptations, and in the pages. I’ve read it countless times, it’s a “comfort novel”. An abridged copy was gifted to me as a child by my mother. When her father passed away, I inherited my grandfather’s Easton Press copy: bound in white leather, accented with gold. Stately. Exquisite. Coveted. I read the abridged version from my mom to my newborn son. Gently rocking him for hours on end—those first handful of days that meld and blur into a streak of color and sound and scent, with indiscernible endings and indistinguishable beginnings. It may very well have been the first book I read to him. Both copies hold gentle places in my heart. Both are nestled on the shelves of my bookcase. As tender a spot as I have for Alcott’s characters, I didn’t immediately recognize them as kindling for me…but seeing Jo’s name listed as someone else’s, illuminated a core memory. It sparked in me a remembrance of when I first fell in love with the idea of being a writer: Jo March. “I’d have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I’d write out of a magic inkstand,”. There I am, summarized in a snippet of a Jo March quote.
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Here is un petit tas de bois d’allumage. A small bundle of my kindlings I re-membered:
The black gown my mother wore to a ball… her matching full length gloves. Solitaire (from Live and Let Die). Medusa. Athena…Artemis. Polgara. Bubo. Swift Wind. Belle (from Belle and Sebastian—the cartoon, not the band. Though they’re lovely, I’m sure). Scent of a Woman. “O Captain, my Captain.” Flashdance. The Indigo. A green vintage Jaguar. The first scent of dhoop in a temple. “I have crossed oceans of time to find you.” Jagged Little Pill. Afternoon tea served on Mother’s Day. Manhattans. Spaghetti bolognese in the Italian Alps. Vintage cashmere nestled in San Francisco thrift shops.
The bits and pieces that spark inspiration, joy, and curiosity inside of us are more precious than gold. They help to shape and mold us. In this new year there is much ado about resolutions and goals and drive and what we will might accomplish. Energetically it won’t be a “quiet” year, this is true, but it needn’t be a year of hustle… What if the Year of the Fire Horse is about the Kindling? Sparking curiosity? Being alight and aligned with passion? Pursuing curiosities with unbridled courage? Like Alice scrambling after the White Rabbit? (My other comfort novel.)
I’m envisioning and embracing a 2026 of laughter, movement, adventure, passion. Of good food, dance, and sacred mystery, that leave me breathless, sated, yet craving more. Neither slow nor reckless. Deliberate. Bold. Piquant. Savored with wild abandon. Unapologetically.
What are your kindlings?
