Undaunted Joy #16

Poet Ryan Diaz celebrates the toil of a small campfire

I am absolutely thrilled to share my space with poet, Ryan Diaz this week! Ryan recently released a beautiful collection called Skipping Stones which I had the privilege to write a blurb for. Here’s what I wrote,

“Ryan’s poems nearly groan with longing. Each is a meditation meant to be savored as Ryan searches for meaning, hope, and Christ’s presence in all things. After reading each poem I felt as if I had an epiphany, understanding the world around me so much clearer.”

This week on Undaunted Joy, Ryan celebrates the toil of a small campfire,

I like to consider myself an outdoorsman. But I'll leave that claim for the reader to decide whether that reflects my actual abilities or pastoral fantasies. But real or not, I do love the outdoors. I think it has to do with growing up in the city. Now when I say "the city," I mean New York City, NYC, the Big Apple, the only city that gets "the" before the city. While most people dream about moving to the big city, I grew up with Manhattan in my backyard. 

Now, I love living in New York, it's truly the greatest city in the world, but for all its beauty and charm, I grew up with valleys and mountains sewn into the walls of my heart. Maybe it has to do with reading the Hobbit as a young boy. 

I was ten when I first picked up the Hobbit. I was at a boom fair when I saw the green cover of the Del Rey paperback edition. I spent hours staring at the maps in the front of the book, tracing the path of thorn and company through the Misty Mountains, Mirkwood, and beyond. 

Whenever I get a chance, I try to go on my own adventures, exchanging the NYC skyline for mountains and Hobbit holes. 

This past summer, I trekked down to Georgia to see my father. We stayed in a small cabin on the edge of the Blueridge Mountains, complete with an ankle-deep creek running behind the house. The cottage itself was nothing to write home about. It was painted forest green as if the owner wanted the cabin to blend into the forest. Of course, that had the opposite effect. The green was too dark for the light summer leaves; rather than blend in, it stood out like a sore thumb. 

On the first night, we decided to make a small fire, so after we finished dinner, we went outside to try to get a fire lit. We toiled for about an hour. Everything was working against us. The wood was damp, our matches refused to stay lit, and whenever we got a spark going, the wind would snuff it out. After an hour, our shirts were slick with sweat, and our backs ached from leaning over the fire pit. But we kept at it. And eventually, after the sun was long gone, we got a small fire going.

It was like we discovered the damned thing. We cheered and danced and wrapped our arms around each other like we'd just won the Super Bowl. All that celebration for a nascent fire in the backwoods of Georgia. But then again, that's real joy; the reward of a job well done, no matter how big or small the job is. We toil and work all our lives, trying to find meaning in grand accomplishments. Rarely do we ever stop to celebrate the small fires, the first embers of a burning flame. Maybe if we did, joy wouldn't be so elusive. It would be a part of our daily lives—present in the little things, the small pleasures, the campfires made by fathers and sons.

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I hope that you enjoyed Ryan’s guest post as much as I did and will check out his collection, Skipping Stones. You can also find him on Instagram.