Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Candle

64. Not Yet Settled

fire above
water below

Fire is above water, not yet settled. Thus superior people carefully discern things and keep them in their places.
(I Ching)

The candle is unusual. A shallow pool of wax contained in a shallow copper bowl. Barely an inch of wax. And two wicks. They look used and broken, tiny, blackened nubs.

I'm excited
but I want to complain.

She tells me she sells these
for $2.50.

She wants me to help her
sell them in schools.

They're cheap enough;
they'll probably sell.

But I don't want to
go into schools.

I'm stuck with my no.
Her words just dance on.

I don't think this candle will light.
The wicks are both used and broken.

She demonstrates
with a match.

I think of myself sitting on the floor of a tiny trailer in Creswell, not-yet-settled. It's January, raining constantly. The carpet is damp, no heat, no furniture. The baby is crying because I won't nurse him. I'm getting sick with a breast infection. The stove works (propane) and Gail makes chicken adobo while I wrestle with pessimism.

I don't want to sell these. I want a sure thing. I don't like selling. I don't like schools. There are too many children there.

You know what? She doesn't care. She lets me say no, my lame excuse floats away. She lights the candle.

You know what? I've forgotten about the mugs, hunger and thirst. I've fallen in love with this candle. The copper base, as small as my hand, an abstract cupped hand, and covered with hammer marks, catching the light, holding wax like a hand. The wax pool is artfully shallow and shimmers with color. The double flame soothes me. I'm gray, I flutter, I'm shy.

She blows out the test flames and I carry the candle back to the dining room.