Carrying Light into the Winter
The days have grown short, and the darkness bookends our commute to and from work. The coldness is settling into our bones; by now, we have turned from the A/C to the heater in our homes, and lights are beginning to shine through windows. The wind kicks up against our ankles on brisk evenings and reminds us that it’s time for boots, as the frost crunches beneath our feet—the neighbor’s cat ducks under his porch to escape the breeze. Everything smells crisp.
As we settle into the winter months, I can’t help but notice the lights spilling out of windows on my street as I drive by. My street is quiet and lined with little houses that all look the same. Some of the lights are warm from lamplight, others are cool from television, and even fewer are small, steady candle flames on the windowsill.
These are artificial candles —likely LEDs —that feature a slight flicker to simulate a real flame. Perhaps that’s why I need the real thing at my side tonight, while I write. The scent isn't seasonal, because I need to finish a candle before lighting a new one. I should be burning a sandalwood, or a pumpkin-something. Instead, it’s called Sea & Sand, with a deep brown bottom of the jar. All of the blue has burned away.
While I didn’t buy it in Florida when I went with my father, the smell and the candle's aesthetic take me back to that time with him. That’s a vacation that I will never forget. A great deal of clarity was gained during that time, and I came home refreshed and ready for the winter months. When I need to warm up, I reach down to that Florida sun on my skin and draw up the memory of standing next to my father in the hot sun on an active naval battleship.
Meanwhile, outside, the sun is sinking, and the golden hour is spilling in through my bedroom window, coating everything it touches in warm light, despite the chilly air. It’s a deceptive warmth. But as darkness engulfs the world from the outside, my still, small candle burns at my side.
I often hear the light banishes the darkness, but perhaps it’s the other way around. The darkness makes the light matter. The light, instead, creates a circle of safety. In the midst of a storm, one little candle can provide enough light and warmth to make the rattle of your windows against the winter gusts only sound like the pitter-patter of a mouse on the windowsill. The light of my small candle holds back shadows, reflects in the glass holders, and spills gently into the corners of the room.
And as the light endures, so do I. Not by eliminating darkness, but tending to the light I do have.
Like any good fire, our inner light needs to be tended through the season, and even more now that the days are shorter and our time in the dark feels as if it is stretching on unendingly. Tending to your inner light can take many forms, as long as it adds joy to your life. It can be something as simple as a good cup of coffee or something as big as stepping outside for a deep breath of air. Just like a fire, without the right amount of attention, our inner light will dim and turn to nothing but embers.
I turn toward my inner light and feed it words. Each poem, essay, or story is a small flame that I add to my hearth, and the light which spills from these flames keeps my heart from falling into shadows. Each card I open to start a new work feels like a little spark, and when I begin to write, it’s like the friction of a match on a matchbook. I hear the scrape, the scent of sulfur, and the hiss of the flame coming to life.
In a way, the blankness of a page is a shadow, something that I must confront each time I start a new thought. That cursor blinking at me is like the ticking of a clock, and the longer it blinks, the louder the clock becomes until it can be an overwhelming cacophony that can only be drowned out by the right song.
Darkness and winter can be draining, which is why I invite you to reframe this time of the year with me. As I strike the match with each blank page, I start a small spark that turns into a flame, which I then share with you, my readers. You can add this spark to your hearth, and as the story spreads, we create a constellation of little fires all over the globe. Tonight, after you read this, light a candle, even if it’s LED. Take a deep breath. Add your spark to ours.
Everyone tends their own fire, even if sometimes it feels like nothing but a steady, small flame. Your light doesn’t always have to be the grandest or the brightest to matter. Your light is part of mine, and mine is part of yours. When you feel depleted, I hope you can come back to this place by the fire with me, where we share words and light. There’s a flame here for you to pluck and return to your hearth with.
Back on my street, where the lights spill from my neighbor’s windows, I realize something. We are not lost in this darkness; we are wayfinders on a winding path back to the dawn. The season ahead is long and cold, but every flame pushes back against that chill. One candle can light another—and another. May your flame carry you through the darkness, may it light the path for others, as I try to light the path for you.
