For a week now, I’ve burnt a candle of my Granny’s. I light it when I read, when I pray, and when I write. In a week’s time, it is nearly gone. For years now, I’ve burnt other candles—prayer candles contained in safe glass vases, who burn within themselves—flame contained by limit of air and burn into itself and hide of flame.
The candle, in itself, does burn—but it’s not the same. The open flame gives greater light. Near—I can feel it’s warmth. The hidden light bares less of these.
Nearly fifteen years, my Granny’s been gone. The candles have not moved from their store within a cupboard—put away for special days—and forgotten without Granny to restore and light them in their place.
I think she’d like to know her candle’s used, that its light and flame are burned right down to their end and that, in its light and warmth, she is remembered.
I don’t believe we’re meant to save away what we know, in us, is meant to be given and shared to others. We aren’t meant to limit our warmth, our light—to hide within ourselves.
Be a light. Share you’re spirit and your warmth. Like a candle—that’s the reason we are made.