Getting a spark

Why introverts don't need flint

I wanted to build a fire so much I could smell it, that unmistakable scent of burning leaves, the charcoal smoke in the air, it’s own kind of sweetness, the smell of Fall. Unfortunately, Smoky the Bear had other ideas. He told us there would be no fires at all, not even a little one - well, Smoky said this from his vantage point on a large painted DNR sign warning that the fire risk is High. In fact, it’s tinder dry where I am, no significant rain yet all month. Dry and surrounded by beautiful white pines, as flammable as paper. I was bummed to read the sign on my way to the cabin; I could have pretended not to see it. It’s a highlight of any time at the cabin, the leaves and golden pine needles as kindling, the bigger logs glowing until the wee hours when the Milky Way is a painting over our heads. The last time I tried to build a fire up here the air was so full of water, it wouldn’t catch, and the sky dumped buckets while I slept.

And because I couldn’t have one, it’s all I wanted, that fire in front of me as I sat on a log staring into the licks of red and orange and later blue flames. all the past, all the future in its center. When the fire cracks and hisses, even the harshest voices soften, sentences become murmurs, murmurs whispers until there is nothing at all but the purr of the coals and the snaps of the sticks as they snap.

I sat outside on the wooden lawn chair long past sunset, waiting for fish to start jumping in the lake like they do this time of night, and I imagine starting a fire, bringing it to life in my mind since I can’t have the real thing. I take all the steps, I gather small sticks and pine needles from the ground, making a small A-frame teepee shape for the spark of a fire to go up from its base. The first tiny flame aims up and needs both oxygen and fuel to take hold, or it quickly dies. If we didn’t have matches, we could use a flint, any piece of steel, a Swiss army knife, or a saw blade. I watched this YouTube “how-to” video on how to start a fire with only two sticks. First, it’s best if they are the same kind of wood, a soft wood, ideally, from the same tree. . You take one piece of this soft wood and flatten out a rectangular spot on a branch. When that’s done, you cut a small groove in that flat ‘runway’ with the tip of a knife. With another piece of that same wood, you make a ‘fire starter”, a pointed stick you can run along the groove. You do this over and over again, applying pressure, holding down the first piece until you get a spark. Just a spark, not even a flame. First, there’s smoke. Then, if you do it right, there are bits of charcoal, just enough to put under some pine needles, or something else fibrous that could burst into flames when that charcoal gets the right amount of air. Air, tinder (for fuel and then smoke. Voila! It catches fire - just from two pieces of the same wood.

Who could do that? Who could start a fire from just one piece of wood, broken into two pieces, no flint/steel, and certainly, no matches? It comes to me without reaching.

“An Introvert,” I say it aloud to no one but the bugs in the air. “An introvert could start a fire with almost nothing. “ And they won’t need anyone else to help them.

I’ve been tumbling the introvert/extrovert axis around in my head lately, how different these two animals are. How they relate, and sometimes, how they make each other crazy. Full disclosure: I’m an extrovert. I draw my energy from being with other people. I bet you guessed that. My husband, (and two of my three kids) are introverted. They need plenty of ‘white space’ after too much interaction with people, especially high-watt bulb people like me. They recharge alone. My mother, a regular cabin companion, is also an introvert. Self-described, though there was no need to tell me.

Even though I have plenty of experience in this, I am still learning to respect the boundaries of those who are not constantly ready to talk, (I wake up talking) to have eye contact with people, lots and lots of eye contact. For me, interactions have too many boundaries. I forget them in the moment. But in THIS moment of reflection in the blue light just after dusk, I realize that all the people I think could light a fire without matches are introverts.

I freely admit that any problem I get, I instinctively go looking for help, not just because I need the assistance as much as I want the company. “Oh good!” I think, “I can ask Jess about this.” Or, “Great! An animal pest under the porch! I’ll march over to the neighbor’s door or see if anyone’s outside who could talk about it with me.” A snowstorm? Yep, just another opportunity. Driving in thick snow is the worst, unless - Unless,you look at it as another way to meet someone who needs help or who maybe has a shovel if you go in the ditch. In my natural state, I’m really just a piece of flint looking for steel.

Introverts make their own fire. I never thought of it that way before now. They’re interested in figuring out a problem on their own and in their own way. (yes, I’m generalizing, these are my introverts. It’s not always the best way, and sometimes they just let it go, but they don’t jump to calling another person in for help, and I do. Of course, the younger ones especially are likely to look up a YouTube video or ask ChatGPT or another AI bot. But they’re still going to be the only person around that firepit trying to make it happen.

So what does a Sunday night look like at this house? Unlike me, an extrovert, the introverts in my life have few expectations. Self-contained. Absorbed. You want to join them? That’s probably okay. Don’t overstay though, or ask too many questions. It’s time for space. Life with people is tiring. I’m not making that up. But it’s not true for me.

In many ways, I think I’m still making up for the isolation of COVID. As an extrovert, I realized that being left to my own devices all day was less like freedom, and more like freaking out with the silence and not going into places with other people. Then I got used to it. When I asked my most introverted child if she was okay having to come home from college and study alone in her room, she said something like this: “Are you kidding?! This is an introvert’s dream!” Got it.

The introvert living in my house hasn’t looked up for a couple of hours, recharging after an afternoon concert in a crowd of people, being forced to chat as he navigated unusual Sunday traffic. He probably doesn’t know what time it is. He might be reading Eastern European history, advice on how to destroy Buckthorn roots without chemicals, or looking up Gothic cathedrals for his bucket list. That or simply doom-scrolling through political rants on foreign politics. I don’t ask.

But maybe, somewhere, there’s a bit of crumbled char in that piece of wood, just a bit. Maybe it’s yet to form, waiting for the applied pressure to bring it to life. There isn’t a hint of smoke yet, but I’ve seen with my own eyes that smoke can come out of nowhere. So I’ll try to be patient. And if I see a tendril of smoke, I’ll try to fan it, and not put it out. Until then, I think I’ll go outside to get some air myself; it’s a cool dark moon with a perfect half-moon. Maybe I’ll run into a neighbor walking their dog who has a burning question to ask me. A spark.