This Diwali didn’t look like the ones before it—yet between the incense, the laughter, and the soft glow of shared devotion, light still found its way home.
“Light must come from inside. You cannot ask the darkness to leave; you must turn on the light.”
— Sogyal Rinpoche
This Diwali wasn’t what I had envisioned.
The house was filled not with guests or laughter spilling from the kitchen, but with coughs, sniffles, and the slow rhythm of recovery. My house help made dinner—simple, humble, lovingly prepared. Only my partner seemed to enjoy it much; my youngest ate plain rice, my older two picked at leftovers. But then came cupcakes from a dear friend as a small Diwali treat, which, judging by the smiles, made up for it all.
Earlier that weekend, my partner and I had drawn the rangoli together—swirls of color and intention at our doorstep. When the evening arrived, he carefully lit each candle outside, setting them one by one in gentle rows of flame. I, still in my work clothes from the day, lit the diyas as my quiet act of worship.
The air carried rose and sandalwood from the incense, curling through corners like whispered blessings. My boys, still fever-flushed and barefoot, came out in their robes and shorts. Together, we paused—just breathing in the glow, wordless and present.
Then, with sparklers and poppers, the celebration began. My partner held the candle for each person, letting every participant take their turn to light their sparklers. Our guards and house help even joined in, faces illuminated by bursts of orange and gold, childlike in their delight. There was laughter, a little fussing about getting too close to the flames, and a lot of smiling.
When the fireworks faded, I tucked each boy in with medicine and blankets. The house grew quiet again. I sat beside my partner, letting the candles burn low. The scent of rose and sandalwood lingered, steady and serene.
“Joy is the simplest form of gratitude.”
— Karl Barth
And I thought—
Light doesn’t need perfection to be sacred.
Sometimes it shines most clearly when life feels dim, when the body is tired, when joy must be chosen instead of assumed.
That night, our home was not grandly adorned, but it was full—of warmth, of resilience, of love that shows up even when everyone feels worn down.
Because maybe that’s what Diwali—and life—really is:
The choosing of light, again and again, even in the quiet.
“May the light of love and the glow of grace guide us through even our quietest nights.”
— Adapted blessing
Well-Stirred Reflection:
Where have you found light in your own ordinary moments lately—when things didn’t go as planned, but beauty found its way in anyway?
Well-Stirred & Wondering 
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