Candle, Humble Grandiosity

When I read Hyphenbird's "The Candle, A Haiku," I had the same reaction as WillStarr; "Wow!" Hyph's writings are always to be looked forward to, and this was no exception; she's definitely got the "haiku" down pat, as she does her in-depth articles. Many of us are intrigued by the comments left for hubs, which can lead us in any direction! They contribute to our sense of collaboration in what we are doing, whether we agree or not, or "understand" or not. Ex: I liked Epigramman's comment that he may not be a fan of haikus or anything else except Hyphenbird's awesome photo, but he read because SHE wrote--he admires her writing--as do most of us. (And Epi, if you see this--please don't try a haiku! Please, no--just not You!)

Reading the comments to "The Candle," I was still in the throes of "feeling" her writing. Candles hold a place all their own, and besides the spiritual aspect, almost everyone feels peace and tranquility with candles (not even gonna 'touch' romance!). But FloraBR's comment: "It's funny," she wrote, "but we rely so much on electricity and technology, but a candle is always able to light our way and warm us," jolted my brain and brought back memories. This is one: prompted by my determination to honor the candle in a different (not as well) way as Hyphenbird, and let FloraBR know she gave me an inspiration as much as Hyphenbird.

Hyph's "feel" was gone (if you read this, milady, I come back to your haiku every so often for that "feel" even now!), but I'm compelled to offer this really humble, 21st century hub on candles and our use of electricity and technology. Flora brought back the memory, but the circle wound, unbroken, to remind me why I had been drawn to Hyph's words in the first place.

Many years ago I was called out of state late at night for a family tragedy. (All okay later, thankfully.) I hastily threw on some clothes, grabbed a tote I keep almost ready to go at any time (yes, I have a weird lifestyle), dumped in a few things in, remembered to turn off the bedside alarm (left it on once and my cat, Gator, was out of his mind when I return!) I canceled a mtg via voicemail. I filled up the cat's food and water bowls to the brim he's lived with me so long he's learned how to ration), gave him two litter boxes (just in case--won't say why to that), checked the fireplace to make sure there were no tiny, hidden embers that could come alive and fly through the screen, did a quick walk-through which led me to even water one plant I had neglected already too long, at which time I noticed the candle on the stand near it was quite cold, and left. I had candles all over my apartment, a few big ones on the hearth. There were several in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, and more in the common areas as well as my bedroom. They were there in case of electrical storms--both outside to kill our electricity and to soothe my often-electrically driven brain (when the colors are chaos and not an orderly rainbow!) I took less than thirty minutes. Hugged Gator, hated myself for the worrisome look on his face and got in the car. Now nothing was on my mind but the eight hours ahead before I could even talk to anyone. It wasn't the 19th century, but cell phones were not yet in use.

I returned five days later (see why Gator learned to ration?) about 1:00 a.m., and automatically switched on the hall light from the door around the full arms of purse, tote, cat. (How do they jump that high that fast?) No light. Okay. I knew I was in the right place, so after a few minutes of acclimating my sight to the dark I headed over to a lamp. I switched the stem. No light. And it suddenly occurred to me it was slightly colder than I had expected. Got a flashlight, checked fuses, then saw the notice (the only thing I had missed) about my electric bill. Winters were my income-lean months, and I always planned to be ahead by October--but I never made it. So that was that; Scarlett would deal with it tomorrow. Gator kept me warm; actually he was quite kind. He moved and let me have the warm spot he had already made for himself, and I was too tired to even think about changing clothes--even shoes: I was wearing moccasins.

Next morning, I immediately called the electric company. Family crises don't count as crises with them. Not sure if anything does. The people who work there are okay--like a lot of the rest of us. Unfortunately, I was tapped to a guy who's been described in many ways by many hubbers: he really doesn't belong to the human species. Or maybe he does, and us good ones don't. Anyway, he informed me that in the five days I had been gone, I had not paid the one-month-behind bill, and the new one had been sent, and I had been called. Since I had not responded, the company had turned off my electricity. I might not have gotten so angry if he had not talked to me as if I were five years old or let me come in and pay the "old" (by 3 wks) bill so I could have heat. It was a high of about 20 at the time.

The memory of that conversation (guess that's what it was) flashed through my brain when I read FloraBR's comment, and, of course, its outcome--which I personally treasure as a choice memory. The unknown man on the other end of the line made the mistake of telling me I HAD NO CHOICE, that I HAD to have electricity! Oh, Flora, how I loved seeing her comment. I don't take well to people telling me I HAVE to have something unless it's true. So I responded in kind to the effect of, "No, I don't have to have electricity; there is no law that says I have to have it, and I can live without it." He was insistent that no sane person (maybe I'm not--oh, well) would do without electricity in this cold unless they had gas heat. The more he said, the more stubborn I became. I could have scraped together the $400+ to pay both bills, which he said I must do to turn our 20th century goodie back on, but chaos was ruling my brain--and I didn't like him anyway. He fumed and sputtered, but I had the last word before I hung up on him semi- screaming "I don't HAVE to have it!"--or to that effect. I don't remember what I said and probably don't need to.

So many people at that time were already becoming homeless, trying to sleep on church pews and showering in very few places with limited hot water, what did I have to complain about? Nothing--except a big-entity corporation that wanted to dictate my life. Hah. I'd show them!

I got a big cookie pan (metal) out of its hiding place. I dragged out a cumbersome but large bed/lap tray--the kind with legs. I got the fire going and lit the big candles on the hearth. I couldn't close off the room, but my workstation was fairly close. Darn! No t.v.! Oh, well, I love to read anyway, and I'd hear about it if anything happened to anyone I knew or my building burned down! I put one large candle in the bath by the sink; another on the tub for the truly skimpy too-hot or too-cold fast baths I tried later. A large one double-dutied on a counter near Gator's dining area and my pantry, and a small one on the washer near his litter box. He followed me intently to make sure he wasn't forgotten, but how could he be? He followed close and talked incessantly as I performed these unusual tasks. (Gee, I wish I could always speak 'cat'>) Then all the candles I could find of different heights, sizes, etc. went on the metal cookie sheet (on top of a non-skid 'thing' I didn't even know I had) on top of the four-legged bed/lap tray.

I kept water hot in a big iron pot. Awful small baths, but I was clean! Had coffee, cooked a fish one night that was oh-so-good even with tiny embers. Eggs? No big deal at all! Since it was cold, I put my cooler right outside my door (hidden by a little alcove), and I was set.

My apartment was on top of a hill that overlooked city and greens, and my bedroom as well as living/work room both had big windows on that side. Little did I know how much good that grumpy old man would do. The first couple of nights I climbed in bed when the sun went down--being extra cautious about all the candles in the other rooms and the fireplace. Once I got the pillows right, the books right (have to have several genres at a time), I lit the candles on the cookie tray.

The first night, Gator thought I had lost my mind and paced in and out of the room until I guess he got tired and cold. He finally jumped on the bed, watching the flames every second (believe me, his huge green pupils reflected flickering candlelight quite beautifully), and finally chose a spot where he had never slept, but was as far away from the flames as he could get. Funny, he always wanted to practically be IN the fireplace when it was going full blast. He singed his tail twice, his right ear and whiskers once, and now fully appreciated keeping s-o-m-e distance, but the candles all together on the bed was more than his sensibilities could take!

A full month later, I decided to give in to our modern ways. But, oh, how I wound up enjoying that time. I wondered sometimes what people thought who saw my windows (very high up and uncovered). Those candles brought me peace; when I blew them out and put them on the floor to sleep, Gator would quietly come up to rub my hair in goodnight, then settle where he usually did. He stayed closer to me when I got home from the day, and his ears twitched along with his tail as he bobbed his head in time with his different gazes, with an occasional puzzled look at me, as I wrote on legal pads instead of a keyboard. I read a couple of good books, but I found reading time getting shorter. After "candles out" I'd lie there and watch the city, the way the car lights flashed in certain areas of the green and not in others, and decided I may have seen and enjoyed many, many more and larger stars, but what I saw was enough; my dreams were good.

I'm glad I live in a country with so many conveniences. I'm glad I live in this century and don't have to fight for light and warmth. I've always loved candles (and fireplaces). But now I know they are much more than just light (or "warm,") as Flora said. As everyone has said, they light our ways, spirituality, thoughts, feelings. I've found they can aso put us in touch with ourselves--when we let them.