At Christmastime, we would unpack large boxes that lived under the basement stairs; they took up all the space in one of the most intriguing childhood hideaways in the house. The boxes stored garland and ornaments and a variety of other holiday decor, including a few candles. One was stored in its’ own box within the bigger storage box. It was white and heavy; square and probably stood 8” high. It had glitter on it so it caught light similar to how snow would and each side was textured like I had never seen. You can imagine as a child I loved to dig it out and wanted to light it; but each year, it retained it’s glory because my mom never wanted to burn it.
This candle has haunted me throughout my adult life. I’d put money on possibility that if I went to my mother’s house and unpacked all her Christmas stuff, I would find it still stored away. Most likely the edges and corners would be round from wear, but I doubt it ever got burned. This is what haunted me the most. I’ve had some good candles in my life; some so beautiful I too haven’t wanted to burn them or they served as a reminder of time past or an old friend. Still, I choose to light them, enjoy their scent and the happiness I have when they’re part of my environment. Then, I find a new candle.
I told Maddie about this candle tonight in a rare moment that turned into parenting genius. She was pouting about handing on her Elf PJs to someone who actually fit in them and had become so lightened by her gesture. Maddie couldn’t enjoy that moment of giving. So I told her about the candle and about how things come and go (or we grow out of them). I tried to illustrate why it was important to release good things go in an attempt to allow other notable items to come in to your life. It fell on deaf ears. However, she completely understood the absurdity of having a candle and never burning it. So when I connected the dots, she turned over and went to bed.
Burn the candle.
