In the dead of winter, candles are alive. I light them every morning to wake up to beauty. Outside my window, unbroken grey wraps sky and sidewalk in an enervating hush. The city is in hibernation. At the kitchen table, my slim candle flames dance to their own music. A wax pinecone sinks inside itself, preserving its brown spikes and spirals as it melts. Another, “Feu de Bois” from Diptyque, sends out a wood fire scent. A few are just glass votives, because, why not?
By mid-February, things are looking up. Daylight begins to stretch. Some afternoons are still too grim and dark and cruelly cold. Others hold surprises. Walking in Central Park toward dusk, I see black trees lined up like logs against the urban skyline. Glass buildings shoot gold and orange embers at the sinking sun. Everything is lit. Warmth spreads. It’s a fireplace in the sky, New York style.