Lamp
“Stay there, until you see
You are gazing at the Light
With its own ageless eyes.”
—Rumi
She was cleaning out the attic when she found the lamp, its blue ceramic base chipped, its white shade yellowed with age. All morning she had been tossing old clothes and dishes: uncluttering her life.
“You’ve got a cluttered head and a cluttered heart,” her therapist said yesterday. “You need a good cleaning out.”
And so that morning, she pulled down the folding staircase and climbed into the attic. And now she stood face to bulb with that old lamp. Many years ago, she had found it in a second hand shop. She hadn’t been looking for it, but it stood so lonely on the shelf like some lost, unplugged soul waiting for companionship. So she purchased it, brought it home, replaced its bulb, buffed its base, dusted its shade, and let it shine light on the smaller tasks of paying bills and balancing checkbooks. And then somehow, like everything else, it wound up in her attic.
It had the same look as it did that first day she discovered it, as if it were waiting for something. As if, silly thought, it could actually speak. What do you want? She almost said, but stopped herself. Instead, she lifted the lamp and carried it down the folding staircase, its cord bouncing behind her. She set it on the kitchen table. She plugged it in. She turned it on, and its rays splashed across the wood grain and onto the floor.
She noticed a piece of light hit her shoe, and when she sat down, she felt its warmth on her hands. Her fingers became shadows on the table.
She marveled at how something so old could shed light so new.
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