I stand there staring at the object that refuses to bend to my will. Doesn't it know it isn't living up to its full potential?
The block of wood remains intact, staring at me. I am aware that if it could, it would make fun of me. In truth, just by sitting there in one piece it is mocking me.
Does it not know that its purpose is to heat my home? I know in the past it was a strong and tall tree that stood proudly. But now is not the time for such things. Fate has decided it is to be firewood.
I hold on tightly to the axe, swing with as much force as I can muster and drive it into the stubborn log. The axe connects with the wood, but only briefly. Instead of sinking in, it bounces off. The wood is undivided, unmoved. Unreal.
Will I ever get the hang of this? I know I'm a city girl new to country life, but how hard could this be?
How am I supposed to start a fire with this enormous piece of wood that refuses to be split? I have no kindling and the little bit I once had has been burned up. Still I have no flames.
Just yesterday it had been a warm and sunny day, tempting us with a sample of spring. The promise of light jackets and new buds on the trees hung in the air. However, during the night the warmth of the day was forgotten as the snow returned and reminded us that winter was not over.
My confrontation with our wood stove is not over either. We're no longer on speaking terms.
Why must there be a certain format in which a fire demands to be built? It should simply be wood plus paper plus fire ignition equals a flame. Sounds like a simple equation, but you would be wrong.
When starting a fire there must be a certain amount of kindling wood, and the paper must be crumpled up just so, then everything must be assembled correctly. Once all these elements are in the proper location, in the right measures, magically you will receive a flame.
I have spent far too much precious time crouched in front of the wood stove labouring for the desired results.
My husband and I had these beautiful plans of raising our daughters in the country. With pure air and space to play, they would have the benefits of country life, yet the perks of the city would still be close.
We were thrilled to find a perfect new home for our family. I assumed the change from city life in Kingston to country life in Gananoque, Ont., would come naturally. I was certain the adjustment from running my own home daycare to staying home full-time with my children, and finally being able to pursue writing full-time, would be refreshing.
And it has been. I love being with my children, and in this environment there's constant inspiration so writing comes easily. However, I didn't expect I would feel so incapable in certain aspects of this new life.
Living in the city seemed much easier. Before we moved, we lived in a house where the heat was controlled by a magical digital box on the wall. All it took was a push of a button to increase the warmth.
Since moving to the country, I have worked hard to keep a fire going to achieve a comfortable temperature. After much trial and error, I have learned to do this successfully. Well, most days.
While I am still unable to split a block of wood with an axe, I've learned to ask for help, which my husband kindly gives. I've learned I do not need to do everything myself.
I've learned it is okay to walk away when frustrated and allow myself a few cleansing breaths before returning to try once again. Although it's usually best to walk away before you throw a piece of kindling across the room.
Country life has brought other lessons. I have learned how to drive on a slippery side road, complete home renovations and stand bravely in front of a bug before killing it, as opposed to running away. I accept I do not need to be perfect at building a fire, but will master it with time.
In my life, my character has not been strengthened by what comes naturally or what I am able to do with ease. Trials such as these have taught me perseverance and exposed my weaknesses – in this case being frustrated with myself and my inabilities. In those moments I transform into a two-year-old shouting, "I can do it myself!" I'm sure I have even stomped my foot a time or two.
It's a wonder to me that learning to split wood and build a fire has taught me so much. I am so thankful for this new country abode and its life-changing lessons.
Don't get me wrong. The wood stove, woodpile and I are still not friends. But we have an understanding.
I understand I may need help and it's not a weakness to ask for assistance. The wood stove understands it's not my fault that at times I must cram those giant logs into it. I'm not to blame. The wood refuses to be cut. If the wood stove has a problem with the way I'm doing things it's going to have to take it up with the wood. Like I said, we're not on speaking terms.
Brenda Redmond lives in Gananoque, Ont.