A record of the week I spent by candlelight in a blacked-out apartment

Monday morning, it wasn't an alarm that woke me but the disappearance of the hum as the refrigerator stopped. When I opened my eyes, the room was so quiet it felt like my ears were stuffed. I checked my phone and found a notice from building management saying there was an electrical wiring issue affecting the entire building and that repairs would take several days. In Calgary, October is already the time of year when the days grow shorter and darkness settles in by six in the evening. Honestly, my first reaction was annoyance. The groceries in the fridge, the tablet that couldn't charge, the digital illustration work I wouldn't be able to do in the evening. But the moment I dug three candles out of a drawer and lit them, a different rhythm began.

A paper journal, brought back out by candlelight

On Tuesday, I moved the journal I'd been keeping on my tablet every morning to a paper notebook. Digital journaling was fast and convenient, but writing by hand slowed my thoughts down. And slowing down wasn't a bad thing. I'd write a sentence, watch the candle flame flicker, then think of the next one. When typing, it felt like the sentences chased my fingers, but with a pen in hand, the thought would form first and my hand would follow. In that gap, what I truly wanted to say became a little clearer.

By Wednesday morning, my meditation routine had changed too. I usually played a guided voice from an app and filled ten minutes that way, but to save my phone battery, I sat in complete silence. The sounds coming through the window were vivid, as if I were hearing them for the first time. Someone upstairs running a coffee grinder. The crunch of de-icing gravel under tires on the road outside. That was the first time I truly realized I could focus on my breath without a guided voice. Sitting without instruction, I felt in my body that the length and depth of my breathing were different every day.

A pencil instead of a tablet

Thursday evening, I opened a sketchbook instead of my fully charged tablet. I'd been so immersed in digital illustration lately that pencil drawing felt like it had been ages. Without an Undo button, I hesitated before drawing even a single line. But I didn't mind the hesitation. A single candle didn't give enough light, so the shadows fell in exaggerated ways, and that actually created an atmosphere. I sketched the silhouette of my hand and a teacup, and the rough shading that came out was something I never would have used digitally. Because I couldn't erase perfectly, my lines became bolder instead. When I drew a darker line over a mistaken one, it became texture.

On Friday, I went to a café near my place around lunchtime, partly to charge my battery. It wasn't one of the spots on Stephen Avenue but a small place tucked down a neighbourhood alley. I laughed as I set my bag down to claim a seat by the power outlet. Electricity was so taken for granted here, yet at home I'd been getting by on three candles. I started to open my tablet at the café to work on an AI mood board, but then thought it would be more fun to photograph the pencil sketch from the night before and upload it, so that's what I did. Digital tools are convenient, but that in-between process of transferring analog work into digital form turned out to be more enjoyable than I expected.

The lights return, the habits remain

Saturday afternoon, the power finally came back on. When the refrigerator started humming again, I felt relief and, at the same time, the faintest twinge of regret. I don't want to romanticize it. Saying the blackout was charming would be a lie. I had to throw out nearly everything in the freezer, I had to rely on my phone's flashlight to review real estate paperwork in the evening, and the hot water was unreliable when I showered. But in the cracks of that inconvenience, there were things I discovered.

Sunday morning, even after the power was fully restored, I sat and meditated in silence instead of using the app. Then I opened my paper notebook and wrote in my journal. The tablet was right there beside me, but my hand reached for the pen first. Of the things that had been forcibly taken from me over the week, some of them, it turned out, I never really needed.

There's a candle sitting on my desk now. Not because the power is out, but simply because I've come to enjoy writing under its light. Tomorrow morning, I'll probably light it again and open my notebook. Not for a perfect routine — just for a quiet start.