By Michelle Allen
There’s a small moment in my day that carries far more weight than its simplicity suggests. Before the coffee brews, before the texts roll in, before the calendar reminds me of everything I’ve promised—I light a candle.
Before I write—before the day claims its urgency—I light a candle and pour a cup of coffee.
Not out of habit, but out of reverence.
It’s a small, sacred beginning. The scent of cedar or soft vanilla wraps around me while the steam curls from my mug. The candle’s flame flickers like memory, like hope, like the quiet invitation to speak truthfully.
This isn’t just the start of a writing session. It’s for the pause. The intention. The whisper of sacredness in ordinary time. It’s how I step into presence.
The candle marks the threshold. The coffee reminds me I’m grounded. The writing asks me to be brave.
In that flicker of flame, I find myself again. I remember that healing can be gentle. That legacy is built in layers—like wax melting slowly into memory. That kindness can come in quiet forms.
Sometimes the words come easily. Sometimes they arrive in pieces, hesitant and aching. But always—they come more gently when I begin with light.
Lighting a candle has become my daily rhythm of invitation: 🕯️ to breathe 🕯️ to bless the day ahead 🕯️ to honor what was and welcome what might be. Sometimes it’s a signal that I’m offering sanctuary again—whether in words, in food, or in the hush of hospitality.
This ritual brings me joy. Not because it’s productive, but because it’s mine. A space where restoration, remembrance, and creativity meet.
It’s a tiny habit. But it brings me joy. Real, rooted joy. This is how I write. How I bless the page. How I remind myself: you’re still here. And that matters.
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