I was staring at the flame. The light of a single candle wick flickering and glistening against the etched glass. Air moving from the ceiling fan produced a gentle movement of the light, and I could see the details of the pattern covering the glass when the light moved across it. I made myself take a deep breath, an inhale to fill my lungs completely and l let it out slowly while I closed my eyes.
I had been reading something about how the brain works and a brief description of how it absorbs positive experiences. How it imprints them into our memories and catalog of life to train itself for future responses to stimuli. It’s much slower with positive, happy things than it is with whatever is hard. Something in the evolutionary process of growing and time and the struggles of living wires our brains to be on alert and more quickly absorb negative experiences or challenges, incorporating them into the map of our responses as self-protection or survival. Not so with what we identify as happy. That takes more work.
In brain time, the slowing down of thinking and attention that’s required to imprint a happy moment on our consciousness is twelve seconds of intentional concentration. That doesn’t seem like much, but in the rise of almost instant distraction and the plummet of trauma response, twelve uninterrupted seconds can be a tall order.
What I was reading instructed me to slow down and focus on a happy experience for twelve seconds. Twelve seconds of no demands, no thought of documenting or sharing. Just twelve seconds to absorb the experience and its nuances.
I let the breath out slowly while I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw the flame again. In a light beige etched glass container. A candle Maggie gave me for Christmas. She gives good gifts. She pays attention. She’s thoughtful. She remembers what people like.
The candle sits on a board that was cut from the floors of the house my grandfather built for his parents in their waning years – my great grandparents. The house was just down the road – a short walk – from my grandparent’s home, the same farmhouse we now own. Papa and Mama Clark’s house fell down and was removed years ago and the space serves as a cleared hay yard now.
I keep several candles on that board on a table by the front window and sometimes keep one or two lighted during the day. I like the scent. I like to see the flicker especially when twilight begins to set in. The light against the dark window makes me happy. Or at least thoughtful and watchful. As if I’m signaling the world that life is happening here. That we are waiting. Anticipating whatever God has for us.
The candle is next to a clear vase of flowers. They came from bouquets presented to Maggie after her final high school theatre production last week. The end of her work as stage manager for her peers and teachers. She arranged the blooms together along with the “Senior rose” she received as part of the farewell tradition. And she told me she thought she did a good job. The roses and carnations and sunflower are vibrant. Beautifully colored and warm in the glow of the candle light.
I let my mind focus on the flame and the setting, the flowers, the darkness for more than those twelve seconds. A beautiful ordinary. Unnecessary in our world of incandescent and LED lights. But the light is soft and moving and warm, and it makes me happy. And eager to breathe.
Lying on the couch, my boys across the room and Maggie out with friends, I watch the flame. A deep breath again. Inhaling for as long as I can make it last to expand my lungs. Fully. Enough to stretch that unreachable place in the middle of my back that aches when I lie in one position too long and when I think of loss. A deep breath that presses against the tension and hurt to release it. Staring at the flame, it’s glow on the flowers and reflection in the window, I’m breathing in the moment of happiness. Letting it fill my spirit to the depths I can bear – maybe tapping a place of joy deep within.
It’s the small things that make life. The small flame. The blooms. The small word left hanging in the air. The truth spoken into safety where no one leaves. Though it’s hard. The raw and transparent request. The quiet. The blanket soft across my legs. The eyes closed in sleep. The scent of herbs on the stovetop mixed with vanilla from a candle by the window. The puppy brushing against my legs as I turn the omelet. The moment for my heart to breathe and my mind to release. The memory of what remains. It’s the small things that make life.
