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I like candles. I light one at every opportunity. I like some at dinner time. At day’s end, one or two are companions as I sit and read or blog. Even at work I have a few lit; one is under a diffuser, and its fellow resides on the shelf. Patients find them soothing which is the point.
Every holiday has its share of candles. I go through a bag of tea lights on a regular basis.
My fondness for candles is not shared by Someone nor by the clinic manager. They both fear I will burn the places down. For the manager’s sake, I am extra vigilent lest the flame suddenly flare up like a special effect in a Spielburg movie and devour us and the world in an inferno.
My fascination with fire started early in life. No, I was not one to play with matches, nor have I set fire to any public buildings. Mother had lit candles only at Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I associate them with excitement. I was a moth to a flame whenever Father had a ‘fireplace fire’ going. I used to love to sit and stare into the flames, or read or sleep nearby the hearth.
In our house in Ann Arbor, I was continually burning wood in the winter months. Oh how cozy it was to have a cup of something hot while sitting in front of a blazing fire, while outside a blizzard howled away.
Alas, our present house has no fireplace, only a fake gas thing behind closed glass, which is a poor second for the real thing. There is a fire pit outside which also burns gas, no fun in that either. I content myself with tea candles and their ilk.
Like a Friday night Sabbath, I think or say a small prayer whenever I light a candle:
May this candle burning bright bring calmness and light to all who see it.
