Skip to main content

Favorite Summer Candles

 Just wanted to take a minute, as the temps in the morning brush into the upper 60's (for at least the next day or so), to celebrate my favorite summer candles and look forward to fall. I try to have a candle burning when I'm writing, especially during the summer when it's not as pleasant to spend long stretches outside.* 

1.  Burnt Orange, by Wick Habit 


2. Frog Princess, by Mort & Co. Candles


3. World-Building, by Novelly Yours


4. Suntan, by Bath&BodyWorks


Looking at the list, it feels that I'm trying to make up for the past several months of staying home, trying to manage "the new normal" that has consisted of getting out less and less as, frankly, our governor abandoned the state to a continuing pandemic and made it more and more difficult to determine whether even going to a nearby park was a good idea, much less a mall. When you're receiving phone calls from major healthcare providers giving generic warnings about spikes in hospital usage, it makes it difficult to be enthusiastic about going out.

Which is one of the reasons for this post--a...relatively...happy post about candles, which help me to calm down and focus when my brain is basically on a constant cartoon loop of screaming and running in circles. I'm grateful to be able to turn to a candle and a quiet room. And thus, candles. 

What kind of scents will fall bring? 


* When I'm at the desk in the closet, I like to have a Mythologie candle going, as they have perfectly small candle tins that work really well in that space. Since those are sets they aren't technically individual favorite candles. They are like the everlasting gobstopper of atmosphere, though, shifting among scents coordinated with fantasy or mythological settings and are really awesome. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...