Capers

We are just back from a successful frolic to France in the campervan, where every little town looks like a WW2 movie set. After last year’s trip to France, my partner playfully suggested a budget just for votive candles. Another French town, another church, another candle lit and contribution made. The cathedral or church will usually the be the most ancient part of the town. I love the architecture, stone masonry and wood carvings, the stained glass and the gargoyles, the sheer size or the simplicity – all that history moves me. I pay my euro or two, light my candle and then recite the names of all those that have gone before me, picturing each person in turn. I have nothing to say, just an acknowledgement that they were in my life and now they are not. The world continues to turn regardless, just as the flame continues to flicker as I stand there, the small candle serving to represent simultaneously both a continuity and a vulnerability. The act of paying, choosing my candle, lighting it and watching the flame dance as I recite the names is a ritual that makes me pause a moment. I feel love and gratitude, occasionally regret and sadness. It is a small private moment of remembrance and connection.

I am so disappointed therefore if I creak open the door (or file in with everyone else), with my coins at the ready in my pocket, and I see rows of electric candles. This change in tradition feels so soulless to me. You put your money in the slot (or wave your smartphone over the card reader) and a candle alights. You don’t know which one it will be and it looks identical to all the others, a fake flicker in unison.  I have to send a wry message to the Ones That Have Gone Before telling them they will have to wait. Another day, another church to visit, until I’m all churched out and my candle budget is blown.

Luckily with this kind of change I can choose whether I accept it or not. I walked away on this occasion. I can honour the dead and feel grateful to still be alive by feeling the tingle of the sun rays on my skin, by hearing the leaves being rustled by a welcome breeze in a heat wave, by smelling the warmth of a freshly baked baguette, and tasting the perfect balance of cream and strawberry in a tartlette fraise. I don’t need a candle – but it is really, really nice to have one.