Like many other people I find the winter dark challenging. I regularly begin counting down to the solstice about the beginning of November and once it comes I anxiously scrutinise the sunset looking for the ‘stretch in the day’ as the Irish call it. Christianity cheerfully purloined the more ancient feast in mid-February that celebrated fertility and the return of light and repurposed it as a joint celebration of the Purification of Mary and the presentation of Jesus in the temple. The nuns in my school, frequently ahead of their time, focused on Jesus ‘light to the revelation of the gentiles’  and dodged the purification bit, with its tricky questions as to why exactly Mary needed purifying. I always felt rather sorry for Anna and Simeon because I thought living in a temple must have been awfully boring, but the Nunc Dimittis has always soothed me with its clear-sighted sense of the peace that comes with the acceptance of a greater understanding than our own.  As a child, I loved the stories of schoolchildren bringing candles to school in lieu of fee payment, the procession with candles for blessing and once upon a time I lit every single candle in the convent chapel as a lovely surprise for everyone. But only once. 

Candlemas also marks the halfway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox and, although a careful eye can easily spot signs of spring from January onwards, it is from early February that one can see life returning everywhere. So Candlemas is halfway to halfway - the spring equinox being halfway to midsummer, when traditionally the fires of St John would celebrate the sun at its zenith, creation in full flower. I wonder if Candlemas speaks to me so joyfully because I feel myself halfway to halfway in my pilgrimage to God, not in years, but in understanding. I suspect it’s well beyond my capacity to get halfway to comprehending the sacred mystery of it all, but truly, I should count my life wellspent  if I could get halfway to halfway.