It is there in many forms
Colourful, gay, radiant
Some drab and muted
Some luminous and elegant.
When the wind blows
It swings and dances
Sometimes frantic
Sometimes slow.
Its soft light is man’s wonder
Skillfully honed and mastered
To illuminate lovers
And guide the path
Of a lonely dreamer.
The Lantern is there once more
Lovingly giving warmth
Beaconing far and beyond
Like a whisper from a tomb
Praying for a lost soul to come home.
On the first weekend in November the small, nearby town of Wollombi holds its annual Country Fair. Stallholders spruik their wares – wines, beeswax candles, plants, local foods, clothing, and recycled goods. Others take the opportunity to educate locals on issues critical to their livelihoods, such as proposed zoning classification changes affecting farmland, property development proposals, and threats to the water table from coal seam gas extraction. The two small sandstone churches of Wollombi open their doors to the believers and condemned heathens alike so that all may enjoy the craftsmanship of the old buildings, multicoloured sunlight streaming in through the lead-light and stained glass windows, casting a warm glow across the buttock polished timbers of the solid benches arranged in devotional rows before the pew. A rhythmic thunk hammers out as burly men swing chromed axe heads in a race to cut through thick logs at the woodchop. In the pasture beyond the Wollombi Tavern cows chew cud and devote not a single spark of bovine thought at all the human twitterings taking place around them. Amongst the trees in the tavern’s rear field a few tents and caravans stand, home for the weekend to some of the stallholders, entertainers and booze-bus aware patrons. In the evening a band will play on the stage behind the pub, beer will flow and more than the usual number of bottles of Dr Jurd’s Jungle Juice will be sold to the beer fuddled visitors.
At dusk, children gather in the parking area next the tennis courts holding a myriad of paper and bamboo lanterns, stars, obelisks, pyramids, and similar simple geometric shapes. Their parents hover and herd them, sharing gossip amongst themselves in small groups as they await the signal to strike matches and flick the wheels of lighters in order to ignite the lantern’s candles. Four children hold a handle each of the fabulously constructed lantern model of the Wollombi Primary School, complete with chimneys and water tanks. As the evening sky darkens the darkened shapes of the lanterns are en masse transformed into a gentle, golden glowing parade held aloft on hooked bamboo rods.
We snake along from our ignition point around the grassed yard of Saint Micheal’s Church, and eventually gather, a hundred flickering candles held above our heads as we approach the funeral pyre of our creativity – a bonfire lit in the grounds of the tavern where our paper and bamboo vanities may be consumed in a growing roar of flame. The RFS brigade members watch over the children approaching the fire to hoist their lanterns into it, and we all give a silent thanks for the weather gracing us with dry skies and an absence of a total fire ban for the evening.
In a world of Wii’s, iPods, wall-sized 3D hi-def LCD TVs, and hyper-connected social exchange a small community gathers together in a candle lit moment of simple, quiet enjoyment. Paper, glue, bamboo, wax, wire and flame binding together for a moment the various trajectories of classmates, neighbours, friends and strangers, Athletes, celebrities, fame seekers and heroes carry the Olympic torch, but in one small town a hundred ordinary children keep a light shining on the importance of friendship and community.
