November 21: "The Lamps," Company of Light, Himalayan Salt Lamp

Mary Oliver keeps night at bay . . . 

The Lamps

by:  Mary Oliver

Eight o'clock, no later,

You light the lamps,

The big one by the large window,

The small one on your desk.

They are not to see by--

It is still twilight out over the sand,

The scrub oaks and cranberries.

Even the small birds have not settled

For sleep yet, out of the reach

Of prowling foxes.  No,

You light the lamps because

You are alone in your small house

And the wicks sputtering gold

Are like two visitors with good stories

They will tell slowly, in soft voices,

While the air outside turns quietly

A grainy and luminous blue.

You wish it would never change--

But of course the darkness keeps

its appointment.  Each evening,

An inscrutable presence, it has the final word

Outside every door.

I prefer the company of light.  So does Oliver.  Her lamps, flickering and gold, tell her good stories as the air outside her front door changes, becomes blue with twilight heading toward dusk.  And then night.  

As the winter solstice approaches, more and more people crave light like starved houseplants.  I think it's a natural, human instinct.  There are religious celebrations of light--Candlemas, Hanukah, Christmas, Diwali, the Lantern Festival.  Light is rebirth, the turning of the heart and mind away from ice and snow and cold.  Darkness is despair.  Light is hope.

Of course, at the end of her poem, Oliver says that darkness has the final word outside each of our doors.  That is true.  No matter how many light switches we turn on or how many fires we kindle, darkness inevitably comes.  Benjamin Franklin said, ". . . in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."  I would add darkness to Franklin's list.

Darkness takes many forms, from grief and sorrow to rest and sleep.  As I've been writing in my most recent blog posts, darkness has been a pretty constant presence for me recently, physically, spiritually, and mentally.  When I get to my office every morning, I don't immediately switch on the fluorescents.  I sit at my desk in the glow of a Himalayan salt lamp, which is warm and comforting.  I give myself ten or so minutes to adjust to the coming day.

I don't try to banish darkness from my life.  That's an impossible task.  Instead, I open my door and invite darkness in.  Makes friends with it.  Try to tame its insatiable hunger.  Yes, living with sadness and despair is not easy.  However, if you never experience despair, you won't be able to recognize joy when it comes your way.  And if darkness is a stranger to you, then light will never stop by for a visit, either.  They are two sides of the same coin (if you'll pardon the cliché).

My sister, Sally, understood this fact.  She was a registered nurse who saw her fair share of pain and suffering and mortality.  Yet, she always went out of her way to make people happy, with her generous, loving spirit.  The night before she passed, I visited her.  I leaned over her hospital bed and whispered in her ear, "I love you.  It's okay.  You don't have to be afraid of the dark."  She died the next morning as the sun was climbing into the sky.  

Tonight, I can feel darkness sitting next to me on the couch, watching over my shoulder as I type these words.  This doesn't bother me, though.  Because I know that night always gives way to day.  That is a guarantee, even in Alaska where darkness can last up to two months at a time.

In the corner of my living room right now, a Christmas tree blazes like the beginning of the universe.  

Say it with Saint Marty now:  "Let there be light."