When
I was little, the best part of the Christmas decorations, even better than the
tree, were the window candles. My mother placed one in every window (with the
cords adjusted to fit to every outlet) and one of my jobs was to wander the
house as the darkness came down, turning them on. I loved looking out through
the frosty glass at the cold dark yard right before I tightened the
yellow-orange bulb and cast a warm glow on the window and throughout the room.
I paused after each, thinking about light and dark, before moving on. At night,
the golden light was comforting; I believed my mother when she told me that
Santa Claus was checking on the neatness of my bedroom and spent hours huddled
under the blankets so he could not see me. The candles helped.
When
I left home, I bought my own window candles. I changed out the bulbs to a more
sophisticated white, but still wandered through my small apartments, turning
the candles on in December. The lights were especially beautiful in the houses
that lacked good heat because of the frost on the window panes. I loved driving through small New England
towns where all of the houses which lined the commons were window lit with
candles. Square, proud Federal houses with white lights against the snow is a
haunting image. Home, they said. We have been home for hundreds of years. You
are safe here. Years later, I
lived with a Jewish roommate. We celebrated Hanukkah and lit his menorah every
evening, then placed it in the front window, where it’s light shone into the
darkness. Candle light in the window grew in significance in my mind.
The Pacific
Northwest does not use the window candles and our tiny house only has two front
windows, one of which will hold the tree when Yule begins. But, as nights grow darker, I am drawn to
lighting a candle in the evening, before I begin dinner. Like washing my hands,
it creates a line between times of day. When the candle is lit, it is time to
draw inward, chop an onion, turn off the news, and make dinner, creating, every
night, home. Sometimes I leave the candle on the table, but I often move it to
the bench by the front window, where the light reaches out to our dark and busy
street.
I
have read that the window candles signified a Catholic house in Ireland, a
signal to the priests forced underground that a family was seeking his blessing,
and that the Irish brought the idea to the United States. That would explain
the geographic distribution of the decoration. I have also read that they were a beacon for
travelers on Christmas Eve, that there was a meal and warm fire within. And I
like that idea. As we move into dark times, small gestures, like a window
candle, become more significant. Ours says that our house is a safe place—that
if you are in trouble, you can knock on the door. I like to imagine streets, like the old
Commons on New England, where there are candles in every window.
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