The images in these two prompts are stunning. I am particularly struck by the many interpretations of the scorpion preferring its own poison, its unique tool of survival and prosperity, to the ring of fire. It seems to me that both stories honor facing hostility and death with autonomy and grace. And, that this is available to every living being, regardless of their place in the human power structure.
I'd love to read what others have written on this one, although unfortunately I can't join the book club meeting. Here is my response, as well.
"When I was young, and we lived in the house where I grew up, where I think we were happy before we were broken, we had a silver candle snuffer. And at most dinners, no matter how casual, my mother dimmed the lights and lit candles. No matter the season, candlelight would draw us close and invite our calm, considerate attention and respect for ourselves, for our food, and for each other. It also showed us new things about the room and the faces we knew so well - light revealed the shadows, drew them into a dance of mounting intensity as night settled outside our windows.
Many nights, as dishes were cleared and allowances for play time were given out, I would remember the candle snuffer. A rarely-polished silver baton with a cap like Robin Hood’s on one end to gently swallow up the light and spit out only a vanishing trail of thick smoke. When I was allowed to use the snuffer, I snuffed the candles with great solemnity. Handling a silver snuffer made me feel like I was time-traveling to carry out a rare and elegant ritual. Bringing it down over the bright, mysterious light was like the closing prayer for the day, honoring the fire for what it held between us and releasing it so that tomorrow, we could light it again.
At that age, I think I was honestly most interested in holding silver things that served a purpose and watching candle light change the colors and moods of a room. At this age, I believe more was being formed in my forward memory than I could know. I wonder whether the other members of my family remember candlelit dinners with affection and comfort. We lit candles in our next homes, but in those places and at our increasingly complicated ages the candlelight stopped pulling us out of ourselves and into each other. Maybe we stopped looking up from our plates to notice the changing light and shadows on each other’s faces. Maybe we stopped showing our real faces, trusting the dark instead. I know that it takes many things, many cracks in the foundation and the paint, to break up a family. Still, when I look inside my memory of family dinner, in my childhood and early youth candles glow like a womb, but in later years, in other homes, their reach is short and weak, no match for the shadows creeping over us like a shroud.
Today, I enjoy candles, more and more, for the meditative and fundamentally loving state they elicit. I enjoy bonfires for the togetherness that they stimulate in a group, but also for the stirring feeling I get when I look just beyond their glow and know that while I am safe in this light, the fire is as wild as the dark at my back. In this memory, I recall that decoration and devices are meaningful for bringing people close, but that they are also temporary and impersonal. We must find and bring forward our own inner light to stay in closeness."
The images in these two prompts are stunning. I am particularly struck by the many interpretations of the scorpion preferring its own poison, its unique tool of survival and prosperity, to the ring of fire. It seems to me that both stories honor facing hostility and death with autonomy and grace. And, that this is available to every living being, regardless of their place in the human power structure.
I'd love to read what others have written on this one, although unfortunately I can't join the book club meeting. Here is my response, as well.
"When I was young, and we lived in the house where I grew up, where I think we were happy before we were broken, we had a silver candle snuffer. And at most dinners, no matter how casual, my mother dimmed the lights and lit candles. No matter the season, candlelight would draw us close and invite our calm, considerate attention and respect for ourselves, for our food, and for each other. It also showed us new things about the room and the faces we knew so well - light revealed the shadows, drew them into a dance of mounting intensity as night settled outside our windows.
Many nights, as dishes were cleared and allowances for play time were given out, I would remember the candle snuffer. A rarely-polished silver baton with a cap like Robin Hood’s on one end to gently swallow up the light and spit out only a vanishing trail of thick smoke. When I was allowed to use the snuffer, I snuffed the candles with great solemnity. Handling a silver snuffer made me feel like I was time-traveling to carry out a rare and elegant ritual. Bringing it down over the bright, mysterious light was like the closing prayer for the day, honoring the fire for what it held between us and releasing it so that tomorrow, we could light it again.
At that age, I think I was honestly most interested in holding silver things that served a purpose and watching candle light change the colors and moods of a room. At this age, I believe more was being formed in my forward memory than I could know. I wonder whether the other members of my family remember candlelit dinners with affection and comfort. We lit candles in our next homes, but in those places and at our increasingly complicated ages the candlelight stopped pulling us out of ourselves and into each other. Maybe we stopped looking up from our plates to notice the changing light and shadows on each other’s faces. Maybe we stopped showing our real faces, trusting the dark instead. I know that it takes many things, many cracks in the foundation and the paint, to break up a family. Still, when I look inside my memory of family dinner, in my childhood and early youth candles glow like a womb, but in later years, in other homes, their reach is short and weak, no match for the shadows creeping over us like a shroud.
Today, I enjoy candles, more and more, for the meditative and fundamentally loving state they elicit. I enjoy bonfires for the togetherness that they stimulate in a group, but also for the stirring feeling I get when I look just beyond their glow and know that while I am safe in this light, the fire is as wild as the dark at my back. In this memory, I recall that decoration and devices are meaningful for bringing people close, but that they are also temporary and impersonal. We must find and bring forward our own inner light to stay in closeness."