There is a reason we gather where the light is. A fire built at the edge of a campsite, everyone drawn toward it without a word. A candle left burning on the porch long after the guests have gone home. A lantern carried down a dark path so the way is never fully unknown. Light does not just help us see. It tells us where to gather.
In the mountains a luminaria carries this further, a festival of light strung over the long table and along the path. It is the oldest kind of welcome, a small flame set out to say the house is open and the evening has room for one more.
This is the candle for that table.
Espresso, raw sugar, cream. Lit before the day has decided anything.
Luminaria is the first. More will follow through the year, one for every season. A fir for the first snow. Fallen leaves for the turning. Sage and cypress for the high dry summer. Each will be named for the country it comes from and poured the same way, set out on the same table when its season arrives.
A candle for each turn of the year, and a light on every table.
Snow Dance Society