The power has gone off a few times recently. Once it was entirely my fault, in that I turned on the iron when the air conditioning unit in the next room was on. Understandably, the circuits inside the walls had a quick conversation.
"Heat up? Sure!"
"But wait! My instructions are to cool down!"
They had no choice but to call a time out.
Another afternoon it was during a thunderstorm, yet thankfully it only lasted half an hour. The third event was caused by a car that crashed into a pole half a mile away.
I notice that all three instances occurred during the day. That means that while it was inconvenient, we could still see. No one was compelled to go digging for flashlights just to make it upstairs. The sudden absence of light makes me want to lure it back, but not to the degree I feel on a dark, winter evening.
The church service last week was about light. We were given candles to fetch a flick of flame and pass it on. Benjamin was the first one to rise from his chair and touch his wick to the minister's candle. It is a soothing sensation, watching the wiggling fire dance from one perch to another. It's one of those magical instances when you can give something away and keep it too. Like music. And joy. And a hug.
The comments after the service described people's experiences of light, and what it means to them. One speaker is what I can only call a professional lightist. Together we shared the moment of having been given, and then shared our own tear drop of fire.
As it happened a drip of wax landed on my skirt. I know how to get it off. An iron and newspaper, though I would of course make sure the wall unit was off.
But I think I would rather leave it there. So I remember how it felt to be in a room of people I care about, sharing the light.
