Stretching Out the Light

I believe I am the only person in my neighborhood who has left the Christmas candles in my windows.  Oh, the tree is down. The little glitters of decoration are tucked away in the plastic bins and stored in the basement. That picture of Santa and my framed art cards from other years are tissued and boxed to be brought out next year.  I loathe to take down those lights with their ability to sense the gradient of evening dark and turn themselves on in time.

Solstice is over.  I know the days are getting longer by tiny increments, but they are still short.  I notice it even more, now that the holiday visits have ended and the music is no longer played. I miss both family and beautiful Alleluias. How comforting those lights are as I pass through a darkened room, still on when I head to bed. They are such small lamps, only a few watts of electricity for each bulb, but they open whole rooms to me. I notice something the cats have overturned, the play of the shadows of furniture and plants. They shed a friendly familiarity.

Oil lamps, torches, firelight, candles--light is bound into human history and achievement. Darkness is fecund with dreams and plans, but doing requires light. We echo the retired sun in our work and respite places so we can make seedling dreams come true.

Candles in the window are a long tradition in my family. While one brother was away from our family, my mother left the welcome-home candle in a strategic window for him for many years, as mothers have done through the centuries to light the way of the wanderer or maybe Christ himself.  Perhaps I want to leave these candles lit for all my loved wanderers to find their ways back home.