cold mountain (53)

slowly fading like a dying candle

Last lovely glow, soothing out the roughness of the day or opening into the brilliance of dawn: I have always loved that fading light caressing the wick, giving as it does a friendly aspect in the dark. My first prayers, not the ones learned but the ones pulled by hunger and yearning raw and awkward to the lips, were said in the company of such small lights. I still ease myself into the day within the undulating umbra of a candle’s flicker, rosary in one hand and coffee in another, waking while the flame gutters. A candle-flame is mystery domesticated, the profound made accessible. All the wild conflagrations of the immense unspeakable still turn to her, lithe little light, to see their essence carried to the hearts and hands of we, fragile and skittish creatures of the spirit.

Chinese and English pp. 72-73 here.