There’s something primal about it.

The flicker. The hiss. The way the smoke curls like it remembers something we’ve forgotten.

A campfire doesn’t ask much of you — only that you show up. With time to burn and maybe a blanket. It doesn’t need small talk. It doesn’t scroll. It just is — warm and crackling and alive.

We’re built for this kind of gathering.

Not boardrooms. Not inboxes.

This. A ring of stones. A shared bottle. Stories that start slow and end in laughter.

Campfires soften us.

They take the edge off a long day. They make space — for silence, for connection, for the kind of conversation that only happens when you’re staring into flame and not someone’s face. They stretch the evening past bedtime and give permission for things like second mugs of tea and one more marshmallow.

And sure, we (k, Pete) light them at Anupaya for our guests.

But also for ourselves.

Because sometimes the ritual is enough.

Strike a match. Gather close. Let the day fall away.

Maybe this is the kind of glow we’ve been chasing all along.