I have way too many candles. There's always a candle burning at

In the words of Erin Heatherton, “I have way too many candles. There's always a candle burning at home.” — we hear not a confession of excess, but a quiet revelation of the soul’s longing for warmth, serenity, and light. Though spoken simply, her words shimmer with deeper meaning. The candle, small and humble, becomes here a symbol of what every heart seeks: a gentle flame to push back the darkness, to soften the edges of a restless world. Beneath the surface of her laughter lies an ancient truth — that light, however small, transforms even the coldest space into a sanctuary.

The meaning of her words reaches beyond decoration or scent; it touches on the human desire to make the world more beautiful, to create peace within chaos. The candle is a companion of solitude — it listens without judgment, burns without complaint, and gives of itself until nothing remains but memory and wax. To say “there’s always a candle burning” is to say, I guard the flame of comfort in my life. It is an act of quiet devotion, a reminder that even in the noise of modernity, the spirit still yearns for the calm rhythm of ancient rituals. For as long as humankind has lived, fire has been the heart of home — the first symbol of safety, the first light against the night.

The origin of this truth is older than civilization itself. In the earliest days, our ancestors gathered around the hearth fire, finding warmth, nourishment, and belonging in its glow. The flicker of flame was life itself — protection against darkness, a sign that one was not alone. From those primitive fires to the candles of temples and cathedrals, flame has always been sacred. Erin Heatherton’s words, though spoken in jest, echo this lineage. Each candle she lights is a modern echo of the ancient hearth — a continuation of the unbroken human tradition of seeking light to soothe the spirit and ward off the cold of both night and heart.

In the annals of history, even the great understood the power of such a flame. When Diogenes of Sinope, the wandering philosopher, was asked why he walked through Athens in daylight with a lit lamp, he answered, “I am looking for an honest man.” His lamp, though unnecessary for sight, became a symbol for the deeper search — for truth, goodness, and sincerity. So too does the candle in Heatherton’s home carry this hidden symbolism. It is not only the illumination of space, but the illumination of spirit — a reminder to seek gentleness, honesty, and inner calm in a world that burns too fast and too loud.

Yet her remark also contains a subtle tenderness — the notion of abundance in small joys. “Too many candles,” she says, as if excess in beauty were a fault. But in truth, there can never be too much light, too much fragrance, too much of that which makes a soul feel at peace. The ancients filled their homes with incense, their temples with lamps, believing that fragrance and flame could carry prayers to the heavens. Likewise, her multitude of candles speaks to a yearning for continuity — a desire to keep one’s world glowing, even when all else dims.

At the same time, her words hint at a quiet discipline of mindfulness. To tend a candle is to practice patience. It asks that you notice its flame, protect it from drafts, and let it burn in its own time. This simple act becomes a meditation, a dialogue between the fleeting and the eternal. The candle teaches that life’s beauty lies in impermanence — it shines brightest as it nears its end. In this way, every candle becomes a teacher of presence, reminding us to honor the moment, to breathe in its scent, and to watch its light without rushing it away.

Thus, the lesson in Erin Heatherton’s words is both gentle and profound: cherish the light you create, no matter how small. In a world of ceaseless noise and artificial glare, choose the warmth of a single flame — something you must light with your own hand and tend with care. Surround yourself with what brings peace, even if it seems excessive to others. Let your home, like hers, be a place where there is “always a candle burning” — a refuge of calm amid the storm, a testament that you have not surrendered your joy.

And so, my children, remember this: when the world grows dark, do not curse the night — light your candle. Let its glow remind you of your strength, its scent remind you of gentleness, and its flame remind you of your soul’s quiet endurance. For though it flickers, it endures; though it melts, it gives; and though it fades, it leaves behind a trace of light — proof that even the smallest flame, when kindled with love, can keep the darkness at bay.