Illumination

I come from a line of women who played with fire. 

Whether on linen-lined holiday mahogany or everyday butcher block, candles clustered across the dinner tables of my childhood. 

I have continued the tradition – from our first shoe box of an apartment in the Florida Keys where a lone taper lit the counter top and plastic patio chairs we pulled up to it, to our current island home that has pillars and table space to spare.   After the fuchsia flare of sunset sinks into the salt marsh all too early these days, hurricane lanterns provide post-solstice solace.  

My mom always said candlelight softens wrinkles and soothes young children during the twilight witching hour.  I now know the encompassing glow also sparks stories, memories lit from within and passed one to the other like hand held candles at a Christmas Eve service.   

There is something about the flicker and flow of light over faces that encourages ephemeral intimacy.  Within the span of a lingering meal, a recitation can turn into a reckoning.  A sanctuary of flame that inevitably disappears in the glare of the kitchen lights.

Lately, I continue to wrestle with learning how to transcend the limitations of our stories, how to stop striking the same match again and again.  I keep thinking about the glimmers along the path, luminaries lighting the way to new stories we can tell ourselves, about ourselves, even when no one else is listening.