My day off. No alarm set. Still, I rose early, before much light filtered through the blinds. I slipped into some comfortable clothes, feeling for their familiar fabric rather than turning on lights that would shatter the calm of darkness. Jeans, I knew, hung over the back of the chair by my bed. A cotton T. A sueded jacket to ward off chill.
In the kitchen, I lifted the electric kettle to feel the weight of water it held. Enough for a mug of tea. I moved a beeswax candle from my office to the dining room table and lit it. The flame jumped erratically throwing out strobe-like flashes of light. Alternating bright and dark were distracting. I blew out the candle and had a look at the wick. It needed trimmed, and once relit, burned with the steady warm glow of beeswax.
I chose a favorite, round mug made by a potter in Woods Hole on the Cape, drawing sea, salt, and friends into my morning. Just enough dawn to allow me to pour boiling water over the tea bag and stop before it overflowed.
"Honey," I thought. Usually, I drink tea black, but honey was right. Gifts of wax and sweetness from the work of thousands of industrious insects graced time to sit quietly in the Presence of the One who made them. Read More