The Candle

A story about my inner turmoil over a gift.

 

The Candle

As I examine the candle for what must be the hundredth time I am amazed by the amount of time I have invested in thinking about something as simple as a candle.  There is after all, nothing extraordinary about this candle.  It is about four inches high, purple in color, and has hearts and a wave design etched in the side.  The sticker identifies it as being rose scented, but since it is still tightly wrapped in cellophane, I do not know this for sure.  It is wrapped in pink netting and tied with a pink ribbon.

The candle was a gift given as encouragement, but what sets it apart from other gifts I have been given, it that it was earned as much as it was given.  I spent a weekend at a retreat working on personal issues I thought were resolved a long time ago.  Things I thought were buried and forgotten.  The mind has an amazing capacity to learn, to reason, and to store vast amounts of information, but it also has the unique ability to determine some things are best forgotten.  However, forgotten things hidden away in the unconscious part of the mind have a way of seeping out and creating chaos in insidious ways.  For this reason, it is sometimes necessary to unearth these forgotten memories.  Not for the purpose of dwelling or wallowing in pain, but in order to face forgotten demons head on so they can truly be put in the past where they belong.

Heather, the very wise person running the retreat, gave us all a candle so we could be reminded of the hard work we had done.  It was also a tangible token of her love, support, and encouragement that we could take home with us.  It was extremely thoughtful. The work we did was hard, both emotionally and physically.  Her directing us through the journey of healing was gift enough to last a lifetime.  However, through the weekend we would often return to our rooms to be left with tokens of Heather’s affection and continuing encouragement.  We received Hershey’s kisses, stationary, bath products, and of course, the candle.  The candle I have spent an unbelievable amount of time thinking about.

Why, I keep asking myself, am I having such an internal struggle about a candle?  Amazingly, I have spent all this time pondering the fate of a block of wax.  My struggle stems from my inability to decide how to best utilize what I perceive to be my “token of accomplishment”.  It’s like an award, a piece of love, a fond memory, and a candle all rolled into one.    

On one hand, I want to have it forever.  I want to process it. I want to see it. I want to pick it up and feel it over and over again.  I may need to draw strength from it at a future time.  I feel strong now, but what about when I feel weak?  That doesn’t really feel right though.  It is after all a candle.  It is meant to be used.  Besides, if I don’t burn it, it becomes, by default, a knick knack.  I hate knick knacks.  Knick Knacks remind me of being a kid.  My mom had a collection of Avon bottles that decorated the house.  Or trailer. Or apartment.  Whatever it was we were living in at the time.  It was my responsibility to keep those hideous replications of flowers, women, and children shiny, clean and dust free.  They may have caused my mom joy, but they just caused me misery.  If I wasn’t dusting them, I was wrapping them in newspaper and stuffing them in a box so they could move on to the next temporary home.  We never had room to take furniture, but those Avon bottles always seemed to make it from one place to another.

So, back to the candle.  Do I relegate it to the lowly status of those hated perfume bottles just so I can keep it forever?  I think about my son.  Would he understand this inner turmoil I feel over the candle?  I wonder because he is a writer.  He doesn’t know he gets it from me.  I’ve never shared that with him.  It was forever ago that I wrote for me.  We share this constant compulsion to think things to death.   I also wonder what his “Avon bottles” are.  What will he look back on with disdain?  Perhaps I should be more optimistic.  Maybe he will think fondly of the many places he has lived, and what he had to pack to go there.  I digress.

 I think I will take a lesson I have learned from those Avon bottles.  I don’t have them.  I haven’t seen them for over 25 years, yet I remember vividly.  I will burn that candle.  I will feel the warmth of the flame, and I will smell the scent of rose.  I will turn down the lights and watch the flame flicker in the shadows.  I will remember how good it felt to leave my baggage in the Arizona desert.  I don’t need the candle to make me remember that.  I will remember all the love and support I felt that weekend.  Thank you Heather for helping me find my voice again and for helping me find peace.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Coltron]

You're right; I do get it from you.

In fact, our styles of writing are very similar - particularly in the way we ruminate incessantly.

I know you wanted me to tear this apart with criticism, but all I can think is that I want you to write more. I can't stress enough how good it is for you. Maybe, once you have enough written down, you can stand back and look at every piece as a whole and take something from it. Explore your head, y'know?

I can only think of one or two minor syntactical complaints, like repeating the word "candle" in the same sentence, but those are superficial.

I'd like to hear more about things like the avon bottles that have, in some ways, shaped who you are today. I think it's good to be in touch with that sort of thing.

Please, write more.

[Creepy Swine Guy]

It occurs to this simple old man's feeble mind, that if you make a trip to a hobby shop and buy some wick material, you can hang a wick into a paper cup, and whenever you burn your candle, you can pour off the melted wax into that cup. That way you always have your candle as a reminder of your retreat and as a reminder that even when life beats you down as in the words of the 14th verse of the 22nd Psalm:

I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are racked.
My heart is like wax;
melted away within my bossom.

...you will soon be new again. That you will never be the same, but you will always rise again. When you cut that paper cup away to reveal a new candle, you can celebrate your resilliance and growth.

Just a thought from an old crumudgeon (sp?).

[J Lea]

That was amazing! I also encourage you to write more.