There are different modes of being, and one of them is the being of one tending the fire. The fire wants to go out. It tends toward its own end. The fire wants to be fed. I can light the fire, but in so doing I take on the responsibility of its existence. Tending the fire is not something you can do in advance; it has to be done now, a bit at a time, and on through the night. I can collect fuel in advance, but I cannot burn it in advance. I have to be ready to add just enough to keep the fire going a little more, never enough to smother it, never enough to have it get out of control. I have to accept the fire's pace. I have to resolve to revolve around the fire and its cycle. Feeding the fire is what I do in order that I might do what I am doing, it is never the thing I do. I cook, I read, I sleep, I eat, but always around the fire. We build the fire where we live. It is a distance beyond which I cannot move, since my movement is limited by the height of the flames. I tie myself to the fire's radius, and it is this terminus around which I choose to exist. The existence of one tending the fire is a distracted but ever-present existence, and its reward is heat and light.