I’m in my living room with all the curtains pulled back surrounded by tealight candles and a single solid pillar of pure Australian beeswax infusing the air with delicious honey. The clouds have drifted away and now as I look up, the crescent moon is a glorious sight in the night sky. Out from our big windows, instead of lights across the hills and down through the streets, it’s mostly pitch black, bar a couple of houses that have their power restored.
The darkness is like a blanket of stillness and hush across the land. On one side, there’s no place where the hills end and the sky begins – it’s just one big midnight canvas with a luminous moon slowly making its descent amongst a scattering of stars.
I know everyone is longing for their power to return – it’s all we’ve been talking about since the destructive storm hit the region a few days ago. But right now, if I’m to be completely honest, I don’t want the power back on tonight. I don’t want the spell to be broken. There’s magic here. There’s something truly sacred about nights like this.
I know I’ll be over the romance of it all come the morning and want the luxury of boiling the kettle for a cup of my rooibos tea.
But tonight, I’m swimming in that sky and appreciating the tranquility. While everything is switched off inside, the mess and all the household niggles miraculously vanish – I can’t see anything except for what’s on the coffee table here, lit up by a few candles. All I can do is stare out there. All I seem to want to do…
Folks out there have either gone to bed early or deserted their homes in search of powered abodes where they can plug in and connect to the familiar.
We’ve created a world in which we so easily disconnect, from ourselves and each other, at the hands of too many distractions. The answer isn’t in obliterating all our distractions (neither practical nor desirable) but just in cultivating more meaningful connection – whatever that means to you.
The lights will come back on one day soon, and I’ll rejoice once more in a machine that washes clothes and a place that keeps our food cold. I’ll think fondly of this peaceful blacked-out landscape and these candlelit evenings and that luscious moon, and I’ll remember that my life can always do with more moments of awe.
Or rather, I’ll remember to make more time for them.
More upwards and inwards.
With a beeswax candle for extra sacred.
Don’t you think?