I will light the candles for dinner.
And this choice will feel like love.
The lamp will enjoy an evening off. The Netflix indulgence of a Seinfield rerun reserved for another time. The cheerful beeswax and the demur white tealight candles will all be lit, elevating my solo dinner with a warm aura of enchantment.
I will take my seat in the flickering quiet, and I will choose to not entertain my thoughts. That would be rude to the dinner guests who are the outside trees and the darkening November sky, I will muse, and peacefulness will massage my mind as I witness wind rustling the leaves and the coming of night.
And this choice will feel like love.
I will feast on fresh asparagus and baby bella mushrooms stir-fried and mixed into leftover veggie pasta. I will savor the nutritious warmth and the jovial candlelight and be in awe of the depth of velvety darkness that cocoons the world outside my kitchen window.
I will note the sacredness of this darkness, like an unfiltered quality of sunshine. I will hug closer to this mystical richness of night that is the ideal dinner date, and I will be so easily smitten by this serene presence that will always be the crystalline clearness of early winter, of this very time of year: nature’s unhurried and purposeful movement between All Hallows Eve and the Winter Solstice.
And being present to nature’s rhythm, noticing my own holy human rhythm, will feel like love.
This late fall, what will fall away … all the minor constrictions, all the little blocks, all the tiny putdowns. The unconscious will be made conscious. I will catch myself before I simply just go through the motions. The lamp will snooze. The candles will be lit. Leftovers restyled with fresh veggies. The trees will speak and the early arrival of night will bring a calm stillness that I curl closer to … and it will feel like love.