Well, for Christmas, I bought my mother a scented candle. This was a bad idea. For instance, I never realised that, expensive as the candle was for me—$20, to be exact—it wouldn’t last very long, and in order to keep the woody wick going, I would have to keep scraping out the candle wax from around it.
This became a very messy operation, and I ended up with a lot of spare candle wax, scraped out of the original large candle. Which got me thinking: perhaps I could make some more little candles of my own, using the wax!
Yeah—that didn’t happen.
Instead, what happened was, I went to all the trouble of buying a little candle holder—$1.50, from the Dollar Store—and some twine, for the wick, from a store that sells fabrics and string and ribbons, which was $2.90, and, after much sweat, blood and tears, burning my finger on hot wax, and finally scraping together a good ol’ little candle, getting wax everywhere, stuck on clothes and the tips of my fingers, the wick itself didn’t even work: the twine just burnt up, even after being dipped in candle wax, and wilted. So, if I want to keep making tiny candles, I’ll have to buy actual wicks, from a shop, which means I’ll have to travel tomorrow to a place I have never been to, and walk for twenty minutes, probably getting lost, to a store, to buy candle wicks, so I can make tiny candles, and not waste candle wax, from an expensive I gave my mother for Christmas.
Stressed. Over what? I simply have an inability to not waste anything. It’s part of my frugality, and also part of my personality; and I have, in addition, a penchant for the crafts, and enjoy fiddling with and making things. However, this candle fiasco has scrambled my brain, and I feel awfully as if I am running in circles, wasting my time.
This entire incident, really, is a metaphor for my life. I don’t know how to quite explain it, but recently, ever since my writing has been going downhill (my mood generally tends to spin in whatever direction my writing’s mood is spinning in) I begin to get this feeling of general uneasiness about life, except it is more like an enormous ball of stress, like this whirling tornado of stress and anxiety twirling inside of me every second of every day, even as I am outwardly calm, smiling and happy-looking. I don’t know how quite else to explain it. It’s a tiny tornado inside of me; that is honestly the best explanation for it, and the only way to ease it, I believe, is not to search outside of yourself for comfort, but to seek something within: the core of the universe, what makes up animals and plants, and you—and that, in my vernacular, is God.
I haven’t been Christian for a very long time, but I have realised, for a long time now, that there is something behind everything in this world, some force, some energy. To this energy, which makes plants grow and the shine, the planets spin and twirl, fire and darkness and light, I have decided to call “God” or “Heavenly Father”. He has helped me, in many ways, throughout my life, mostly through aiding me in my writing when I get stuck, whispering words of comfort deep within my heart and being there, whenever I look out at the world, and sense His presence.
So. I guess the moral of this story is: tomorrow, I am going to go out, and try and find some candle wick. And if I succeed, I will be able to make my own tiny candles. And they will give light. Lots of light. And a nice scent. And that, my friends, will make the tiny tornado inside of me calm down a little, even if I don’t know why I should feel calm about that in the first place, which is, in turn, a metaphor for what God is in my life.
A metaphor inside a metaphor. Ah, the joys of my mind.