I love to be in my bathroom with my candles lit, morning, noon

Hear the words of Traci Bingham, spoken with candor and softness: “I love to be in my bathroom with my candles lit, morning, noon and night. I like taking hot baths and hot showers, using my body scrubs and lotions.” At first glance, these words may appear simple, even ordinary. Yet hidden within them is a teaching of self-care, of reverence for the body, and of the sanctuary every soul must build for itself in a restless world. For the ancients knew well that the tending of the body is also the tending of the spirit, and that peace of mind is born in quiet ritual.

The bathroom, though humble in name, becomes here a temple of renewal. The candles lit transform it into sacred space, where the ordinary is transfigured into the divine. In such a place, time itself bends: whether morning, noon, or night, the bather steps outside the tumult of the world and re-enters the silence of the self. The flame of the candle is not merely light but symbol—an echo of the eternal fire that dwells in the heart. To sit with this flame, surrounded by warmth and cleansing water, is to converse with one’s own soul.

The act of bathing has always been more than hygiene. The Romans built vast thermae where statesmen and citizens alike cleansed not only the body but the spirit through ritual immersion. The Japanese created the onsen, springs of natural heat, where one enters the water not merely to wash but to purify, to be made whole. In these ancient traditions, we see the same truth reflected in Bingham’s words: that the hot bath and the hot shower are sacraments of release, washing away not just dust but sorrow, weariness, and care.

Consider the story of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, who wrote in his Meditations of the need to return often to simplicity and inwardness, though burdened by the empire’s weight. Though history records little of his private rituals, one can imagine him finding solace in water, in oil, in quiet ablutions. For such rituals remind us that though we carry the weight of kingdoms—or of daily trials—we are still flesh and spirit in need of renewal. To neglect the body is to neglect the soul that dwells within it.

Bingham’s mention of body scrubs and lotions is not vanity, but reverence. The anointing of the skin, the honoring of touch, is a recognition that the body is the vessel of life. In the ancient world, kings and prophets were anointed with oil as a mark of sacredness. To anoint oneself, even in solitude, is to declare: “This body is worthy of care, of gentleness, of love.” And when this truth is embraced, the spirit is lifted, for self-neglect is the seed of despair, but self-honor is the seed of resilience.

The lesson, then, is this: carve out sacred spaces in your daily life, and let them be places of renewal. Whether it is the bathroom with its candles lit, or a quiet room for meditation, or a garden bench beneath the trees, create rituals that remind you of your worth. Do not see these moments as indulgence, but as necessity—as vital to the soul as food is to the body. For in these rituals lies the power to heal, to endure, and to walk through the world with renewed strength.

Practically, let each person set aside time each day for the cleansing of body and spirit. Bathe not only to wash away the dust, but to release the burdens of the mind. Light candles, play music, or sit in silence—whatever brings you inward. Afterward, care for the body with gentleness: rub in oils or lotions, stretch, breathe deeply. These acts may seem small, yet they guard against despair and fortify the heart for the trials of the day.

And so I say, O listener: learn from Traci’s words, and make of your life a temple. Let the waters cleanse not only your skin but your soul. Let the flames of candles remind you of your own eternal light. And may you emerge from each ritual not weary, but radiant—ready to face the world with calmness, strength, and unshakable dignity.