Light is What We Need

As I lay under the covers in bed last night, book in hand, flashlight resting on my pillow and shoulder, I was caught between frustration that the electricity had been out for most of the last four hours and gratitude that I had shelter and a bed and a down comforter. It was Christmas Eve—not that I was a part of any big celebration, alone in my barn house in rural Leon County, Texas—and it was 30 degrees outside. Storms passing through emptied rain well into the evening as the wind howled, playing havoc with the wind turbine on the roof. No lights, no heat. Sure, I had candlesticks and a kerosene lamp, but instead I set a small candle by the head of my bed, and though I had a couple of flashlights, I fretted that I had no extra batteries. Alas, I am a creature of comfort.

As I grew cozy under the comforter, I stretched my body, scrunching up my back and butt and wiggling my toes, and I smiled because I was able to shine a light on the words of the novel I had started. It was only 7 in the evening, and I wasn’t sleepy. I was reminded of the first time I visited my friends Joy and Judy on the Carson mesa in northern New Mexico in 1988. Their summer retreat is an authentic adobe that they built with the help of family and friends—a work in progress—planted with a panoramic view, windows facing the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Because they had no electricity, we took flashlights to bed so that we could read ourselves to sleep. Readers, we are. Shelves and stacks of books are part of the landscape wherever we dwell, permanent and not. I called them at Joy’s home in Tulsa, where Judy and her nephew Stephen are visiting for Christmas. They were watching a “Minnesota blizzard,” as Judy called it, making its way across Oklahoma. “I’m reminded of Carson,” I announced as Judy answered her wireless, greeting my call with friendly recognition, and then I explained about the loss of power here, my flashlight memories of Carson, going on to talk about the holiday and the collection of books Judy had lent me when I spent the night at her place in Ft. Worth on the way to my Texas home from New Mexico almost two weeks ago. “Has it been that long already?” she asked.

In the back of my mind, while Judy chatted amiably, I worried because my cell phone battery had already shown that it was working its way down toward a charge, another reminder that I had no electricity. I couldn’t charge the battery, and without the phone, my ability to communicate was clearly compromised. No flashlight, no book, no cell phone—only me and the dark and the wind and the night. Christmas Eve. But I had shelter, a now-warm bed, a lighted candle, a commode near by and a glass of water. Christmas Eve. I was safe and well fed. That I was immeasurably blessed was not lost on me. Conscious of my limitations, however, I called my oldest sister, Joan, who had returned to her home on these same 200 acres from Christmas Eve celebration at the local Methodist church. She too was “without lights”. Only one other chicken remains in our immediate family, our sister, Sue, who with her husband lives west of Houston, most of her offspring nearby. We were all safe and tucked in our respective homes.

By any entertainment standard, my expectations were low for this night. They had started low because I really preferred to be in the comfort of my own home, quietly engaged in a book, to shut out my lamp by 9 or so, and to lie with my hands folded on my diaphragm, counting to 10, 20 times counting to 10, and repeating to myself whatever mantra wanted to settle in my brain as I breathed in deeply and exhaled completely—Thank you, I am blessed, God is love, Love heals, God.

Tonight the sky is clear, filled with stars. An owl hoots in the nearby grove of Post Oak trees, and the night birds call plaintively. Truly, that is the sound. All is well on this Christmas night. Our small family, each of us, is safe at home. I imagine that Joan has a fire going while she watches TV. Sue, recovering from a winter cold, is with her family, a fire burning in the large woodstove in the house where we grew up. A fire dances in my own little wood stove tucked away in an add-on room, where I keep my books and lots of other treasures, and where I use my laptop while here in Texas. There is plenty of light. Light—light is what we need.

Light is What We Need—Normangee, Texas (December 25, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis