My dearest Mermaid Darlings of the Stillwater Petticoat Society,
February has arrived at our dear threshold, and she comes as she always does—cool of breath, silvered with damp, and wrapped in a soft grey shawl. There are mornings when it feels as though the whole world has drawn its curtains and settled into a long, thoughtful slumber, quite forgetting its promise to wake again as spring. Yet February is a brief visitor, and her days are short besides. When the sun deigns to show her face, we step outdoors with glad hearts, strolling slowly and watching our shadows trail after us like old friends who refuse to be left behind. One cannot help but wonder—how many weeks more of winter must we yet endure?
I, for one, remain incurably hopeful. I cannot pass the garden beds without spying what I call February’s fair maids—those brave little snowdrops pressing their pale bonnets through the frozen earth, whispering that spring is already on her way, however quietly she may tread. With the great holidays now folded neatly away, the young souls of our household grow bright-eyed again, keen for fresh diversions and gentle merriments.
And so February, dear month that she is, offers us her own small treasures: evenings by the fireside, wax and wick for candle-dipping, bowls and spoons for the making of comforting sweets, paper and ribbon for valentine missives made by hand and heart alike. These are the simple joys that bind us, stitch by stitch, into warmth and belonging.
Come then, my loves—draw nearer. Let us pass this month together in candlelight and quiet laughter, trusting the tide, knowing full well that spring never truly forgets us.
There is a quiet turning point in the heart of winter that I have honoured for many years now—long before the children grew tall and the house grew quieter. On the second day of February, Candlemas Day, winter seems to pause, draw a thoughtful breath, and consider whether it shall linger or begin its slow retreat.
When my children were little, this day carried a special hush. Candlemas marked the true closing of Christmastide, and together we gathered away the last ribbons and evergreens, setting the house to rights while the light outside still fell early and soft. Winter remained, yes—but it no longer felt endless. Candlelight made it companionable.
Midway through the season, I would take stock of our candles, counting them carefully, knowing how faithfully they served us through the darker weeks. A candle was never merely wax and wick—it was reassurance. Light for an early morning, warmth for a quiet evening, comfort for small hands and sleepy eyes. If our supply ran low, Candlemas became an invitation rather than a concern.
An invitation to make more.
The children loved candles, and they delighted even more in the making of them. Candle-dipping became one of our most cherished winter pastimes—simple in its requirements, generous in its rewards. Beeswax warmed and melted, wicks dipped and lifted, cooled and dipped again. Slowly, patiently, almost without notice, a candle took shape. The rhythm soothed us. The repetition steadied us. Beauty arrived not by haste, but by devotion.
What I learned then—and still hold dear—is that candle-making is never meant to be solitary. It draws people together. Hands pass tools, voices soften, laughter finds its place. By the time the finished tapers appear, the real work has already been done: time has been shared, warmth has been made.
Now, years later, I carry this tradition forward in a new way.
I still observe Candlemas faithfully, but now the circle has widened. Friends gather. Kindred spirits come near. At small social gatherings and seasonal evenings, I invite others into this same gentle practice—candles dipped by many hands, stories exchanged, winter sweetened by light. The house glows. Conversation slows. The season loosens its grip.
We light candles throughout the rooms, often setting them before mirrors so their glow multiplies and wanders. We dine by candlelight, speak softly, and remember what it felt like to live by flame alone. And always, I keep one favourite custom close to my heart: each guest chooses a single candle. When it burns down, the evening draws gently to its close—no abrupt ending, only a natural resting.
Candlemas has followed me through motherhood and into this season of gathering. It has grown with me, just as traditions ought to do. What once held a household now holds a community.
And one day—when the right doors open and the right place receives us—I know this gathering will find its proper home. Until then, the light is already practised, already alive, already waiting.
With waxed fingers and a steady flame,
Lady Raquel
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