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Nov
10
Breakfast By Candlelight
Filed Under Ruminations
What is it about such a simple thing as lighting a candle that turns an ordinary muffin breakfast into a luxurious event? Some people believe that the smoke caries your prayers, thoughts, wishes straight up to the heavenly ears of those who can allegedly do something about your worries and wishes.
Then there’s the notion that everybody is beautiful in candlelight. Some say forget about cleaning your house before a gathering - just light some candles and folks won’t see the dirt.
Whatever it is, there’s definitely something quieting about lighting a candle.
This morning, when I convinced myself I had earned a break, I chose to eat my muffin at the table seldom used for eating any more. Writing there, yes. Meeting there, yes. Eating there, not in a long time. But there’s something about that table that I call the newlywed table because it’s the first piece of furniture Andy and I bought with our own saved money after we were married. We loved it then, and we love it now. It stays. That table sheltered and supported me as I wrote my thesis on its top. Yes, it’s a very special table, and yes, I have a thing for tables.
So this morning I sat down at that table to eat my muffin, drink my water, and read my book, and on a whim - a thoughtful whim, mind you, but a whim nevertheless - I also chose to light the candle Andy and I bought at a shop in Asheville years ago. It’s just been sitting there, its wick sitting up inviting us to bring a match close enough to light it, and so this morning I did, and it was like taking the proverbial road less taken: though I can’t tell you exactly why, it made all the difference. All the difference.
Is it the attention fire always demands with its potential destructive capabilities? We know what it’s capable of so we treat it with more respect than we sometimes afford each other? Some people are like that - when their fire of anger ignites, I grow quiet and give them space.
When I was a junior in high school, we had a new, young fresh-out-of-college chemistry teacher roll into town. Mr. Dixon, he was. The first day of class, we entered the chemistry room to find a single candle burning on each table. There was a dramatic difference in the noise levels on each side of the threshold - the noise in the hallway was deafening as students slammed locker doors and talked loudly to be heard as they scurried to their classes. Inside the class, all we could hear was the 17 small flames. We chose a place at a table and waited quietly to find out what was expected of us. “Tell me what is the hottest part of the flame,” Mr. Dixon said by way of greeting. You just never knew what to expect from these first-year teachers. As I looked closely, it was the fist time I noticed the different colors of a flame. Probably because it was the first time I slowed down and took the time to look at a flame.
And maybe that’s what makes lighting a candle so special: it slows us down. We can’t see as well, so we have to be more attentive. Our senses have to be on alert. We can’t be distracted by the clutter of other things. We are totally there, in that particular whisper of a moment of life when all the other, less important things fall away.
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