My candle burns at both ends—
It will not last the night.
But ah my foes and oh my friends,
It gives a lovely light.
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, “First Fig” 1922
Pulitzer Prize winner Edna St. Vincent Millay was one of the most popular poets of her generation. She lectured to sell-out crowds throughout the U.S. and recited poetry on the radio. She made ordinary words beautiful and achieved what great poets do by capturing ideas and emotions with an economy of words. That is a special talent that few have and that I envy. Her wonderful poem “Renascence” was published when she was only nineteen. She was a rule-breaker with a scandalous, quirky lifestyle and addictive, self-destructive habits. Indeed, she was a perfect example of the above poem.
Last week I wrote that Christmas is a double-sided coin. The foundation of my Christmases was laid when I was a child, and it’s the most joyous time of the year for me. However, is there a one of us who didn’t think about what Christmas was like for the hurricane victims and for the people of Newtown, Massachusetts?
Sometimes I am swept with a sense of poignant loss for people and past times that will never come again. Candles symbolize life, and the flame of a candle creates a tiny spot of living light that softens the world and brightens the spirit.
Whenever Bill and I visit Notre Dame de Paris, I light a candle in memory of my devout little mother. I like to think that the essence from its tiny flame rises to the ceiling far above and mingles there with that of the centuries where it will remain forever.
Christmas brings memories of a delightful week that we spent in Paris with our dear friend, Phyllis Otto. They were just commencing the Christmas season, and we went to Notre Dame for an evening of Benjamin Britten’s “Lessons and Carols.” While we were in Paris we took Phyllis to the Cluny Museum to see the lovely tapestries of The Lady and the Unicorn. After our return she showed up for dinner at our house, ever so smug about her gift for us which was an ornament depicting the tapestries. Since her death — too soon, too soon! — I also light a candle for her when we’re at Notre Dame.
Whenever my mother spent Christmas with us, we attended Christmas Eve service at Irvington Methodist. Sometimes friend Sarah and her mother joined us. The people are given candles as they enter the sanctuary. At the end of the evening the lights are dimmed, and the people light their candles from each other’s candles and raise them during the singing of “Silent Night.” Mother held hers as high as she could reach . . .
My eyes stung with tears the first time we went after her death, and it was a struggle not to break down. I made excuses not to go several times after that. Twenty-five years later, it’s still very difficult, and Bill says that it’s hard for him, also. This past Christmas we attended the service at Methodist North with friends Jack and Mary Jane. I thought that it might be different in that gorgeous church, listening to glorious music. It wasn’t. Perhaps such feelings are necessary to remind us of our humanity and mortality.
“‘Tis better to light one candle than to curse the dark.”
One of my nieces and one of my nephews were stricken by the untimely deaths of their only and greatly beloved sons within the past year-and-a-half. They struggled bravely to keep Christmas. My nephew and his wife lit one candle during the Luminaria in memory of his son.
I must try to keep a candle glowing at the center of my being to give me comfort and hope during the dark nights of the soul that all humans must live through. wclarke@comcast.net