On the first morning after the winter solstice, it is still dark after seven, and raining with intention. The cobblestones leading to her threshold are glossy, and the street beyond the windows is a strand of shiny wetness flowing into the distance.
She craves tea this morning, not a healthy mug of green stuff at first, but an aromatic pond of Asian tea, masala chai perhaps, Assam or Darjeeling. Then she remembers an artfully painted canister in the tea cupboard and decides that this morning's rite will be a bowl of matcha.
She puts matches to candle wicks, drinks her tea and the light in gratefully. Rain or no rain, this will be a fine day.