I need enough candles to see my way throu without tripping on my slippers, stomping hte cat or bumping my shoulder against unfamiliar doorways. Candles beat flashlights like cotton beats polyester. That natural glow illuminates and does not flood; shadows are real, footings are more tentative. Life is lead by candlelight. Flashlights lead to exploration beyond my arrogance.
Candles lit a damp, frigid castle on the sullen, stormy night Mary Shelley told her tale of morbid scientific impossibilities to a small circle of cohorts. How many candles were enough that night? The precise total to animate unseen, yet envisaged lifeless jigsaw pieces into a monumental concept. There were no more, nor less; the required number exactly.
Candles lit with hope crowd the small room at the back of the cathedral, generating enough heat to raise the temperature a good 20 degrees: shimmering light rising in entreaty, memory and promise. Yet still people come, drop their coins in the wooden box, and light another, another, and another.
Always, there is room for more, as one burns down and the next one takes its place. Room for another prayer, another birthday marker, another soft-lit night of love, another hurricane huddle against the storm.
Always, there is room for more, as one burns down and the next one takes its place. Room for another prayer, another birthday marker, another soft-lit night of love, another hurricane huddle against the storm.
Beautiful images, MS. I could practically smell the castle's damp walls, and am intrigued by your jigsaw concept!

