Somewhere between a year and a year-and-a-half ago, I was getting ready to close my dance studio and move out of The Big House, the place I called home for over two years. (We called it The Big House because it was a big house. Some things aren’t complicated.) Between the closing of the studio and the time I moved out of my home, there was a three-week period, during which time I worked frantically to finish unfinished remodeling projects around the house. The last project I finished was the upstairs bathroom, the room with the clawfoot tub I used to love to soak in. It really was a last-minute deal–I was still putting paint on the walls my last week there. Still, I went ahead and decorated the entire bathroom–hung up pictures, put a rug on the floor, the whole bit. I figured as long as I lived there, I was gonna live there.

Next to the clawfoot tub was a gas space heater, something that came in rather handy during the winter months. On top of the heater I put a lamp, and next to the lamp, a wooden tray. I think the tray was designed as a kitchen item, but I used it to hold a bar of soap, as well as a candle I’d picked out especially for the bathroom, even though I’m not a candle person. But that final week, I fell in love with THAT candle. Every night I’d crawl into the clawfoot tub after lighting the candle, and while I listened to Fleetwood Mac, the light from the candle would dance with the shadows on the walls.

It’s another story, but The Big House had come to me when my life was a mess. I’d just started therapy and had gotten out of a terrible (no good, very bad) relationship in which there was a lot of yelling. In that relationship, I felt like a ship being tossed about by a storm that wouldn’t relent. Then for the first time in over six months, the storm subsided–everything got still. I found myself in this big house, and it was quiet. Three thousand square feet where I could hear myself think. A place of peace where I could lay my head at night and figure myself out. Looking back, I can see that at the same time I was remodeling the house, I was remodeling myself. Granted, now I look the same on the outside, maybe a few more wrinkles, but I’m different where it counts. My standards are higher, I won’t let myself be walked on, I speak up for myself. In short, I love myself more. So for the place that held me safe while all these renovations went on, I’m eternally grateful.

Getting ready to move out that final week, I went through every single thing I owned. One item at a time, I decided what to keep, what to sell, and what to give away. By the time it was all over, I went from all my possessions being able to fit into The Big House to being able to fit into my Honda Civic, Polly. I sold most the things in the upstairs bathroom, or gave them away, but I decided to take the wooden soap tray and the candle. Ever since then, I’ve used the tray to hold objects that I consider sacred–a small vial of holy water, a beautiful spiritual necklace I never wear on the outside of my shirt, a paperweight that belonged to my uncle when he was alive. I call it my traveling altar. At some point I started putting my jewelry on the altar. It began with a small ring I got at Disney World when I was seven that says, “Marcus,” my logic being that surely I’m a sacred object too.

I’ve always kept the candle in the middle of the tray. In addition to being a stereotypical spiritual thing to have around, the candle inspires me because of the message printed on the outside of it. It says, simply, “Resolute.” For over a year now, every time I see the candle, I think the same thing I thought when I bought it–I don’t know what lies ahead, but I’m determined to see myself through it. My therapist and I discussed this recently. We were talking about strengths that are born out of hardships, and I said that I’m resolute and determined because things were so shitty for so long. Now I don’t give up. I absolutely know this ship can weather any storm. My therapist said that the best people she knows–the ones who are the kindest and the strongest–are the ones who have lived through hell and have found a way to not be bitter about it. “It’s what happens when you refuse to be a victim,” she said.

Lately I’ve been burning the Resolute candle every day while I meditate and do chi kung. It’s become this ritual. I turn off all the other lights in the room, usually put on some sort of instrumental music, and always light the candle. (Growing up, I never imagined I would be someone who does this sort of thing.) Anyway, I guess there’s something powerful about rituals. Sometimes all I have to do is light the candle and take a few steps toward the center of the room, and I being to cry. It’s like seeing that flame is all my body needs to let go. Joseph Campbell says your sacred space is where you can find yourself over and over again, and I guess that’s what my traveling altar has become–a place where I can heal.

Yesterday I lit my Resolute candle for the last time. It burned out, ran out of wax before my meditation was even over. When I threw it away earlier this evening, I felt like I did when I walked out of The Big House for the last time. A little lost. Tonight I replaced my Resolute candle with the only other candle I could find around the house–a pale green one labeled “Mint Chocolate Chip.” Honestly, burning it tonight during meditation wasn’t the same. I kept thinking it smelled like–well–fat. Like, I probably gained two pounds just by taking the lid off. Still, its flame burned just as bright. Also, having lived through hell, I know my being Resolute has nothing to do with a physical candle that used to sit on my traveling altar. Rather, that flame burns deep within me, and the real altar is my body, my heart, my soul. As it turns out, I am the sacred space which I take everywhere I go, the sacred space where I can find myself over and over again, the sacred space where I can heal.