Once Upon a Magic Candle

Or, an evening well spent.

I take two trains and a walk in the rain to buy a magic candle.

At this point, I suppose, it’s just a candle — a pillar of wax in a column of glass, awaiting its purpose. I’ll bring it home and carve it with symbols, anoint it with (biodegradable) glitter (an important distinction), and set it ablaze.

Per official magic guidelines, it will burn for seven days straight, though I’ll snuff it out when I’m absent or sleeping, as my commitment to fire safety outweighs my mystical proclivities. I am a very responsible witch.

My motivation is twofold. For one, I plan to write about this ritual, so technically this is business. But also, I am fucking sad. A bit aimless, feeling the weight of grief and personhood and precipitation. It’s been a long while since I’ve done this, but I hope the candle will help.

Common wisdom tells me to anchor it in a narrative, so I plan to tell the story of my first magic candle, maybe ten years ago. How a friend named Emily — a logical person, a lawyer! — introduced me to the practice. (This makes it okay, more mainstream and palatable.) She swore by it, attributing job offers and huge wins to the candles’ mysterious powers.

From there, I’ll talk about the history and symbolism of candle magic, how different colors and sigils are used for different aims. That the power lies not in wax or flame, but in one’s focused intentions. (This makes it valid.)

But by the time I finish the candle, and light it up, and sit down to write, it all feels like an unintended apology. And I am so tired of apologizing.

I don’t want to sell a candle any more than I want to sell my words or my worth or my lifestyle. What I want is to make a connection, to help in some small way. To feel the truth and tell it.

So here’s one: My appetite for magic increases as my tolerance for pretense wanes.

As the candle burns, I begin to suspect that maybe the story isn’t about procuring something, or producing something, or even believing in something. Hope, courage, and conviction are all well and good. But maybe the beauty of one pointed flame is the invitation to stop striving and watch it dance for an instant. To trust that as long as it’s lit, and even when it isn’t, our intentions are carrying us forward.

Maybe the story is simply to find comfort where we can.

Magic candle indeed.