Lamplight

I have an old lamp in my living room that belonged to my grandparents. It’s got an oblong rust-orange glass base and a big wide fabric shade with two light bulbs, each with their own pull string. The 1970s style blown glass lamp lived in my Nana and Papa’s living room on their fourteenth floor apartment on the north side of Chicago.

The lamp has followed me through moves in three different homes of my own. Now it lives in my living room. Every morning I come down the stairs and duck into the living room to pull the string under the shade of that lamp to light up the living room. Then I go into the kitchen to make my coffee. Once my coffee is brewed, I pour a cup and go back into the living room where I open a poem book, choose a poem, and read one before I meditate.

The big orange pull string light sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. The switch is sensitive, often triggered by someone walking by or plopping down on the couch. It will turn off or on, seemingly at will. I’m always happy when that happens, like I’m getting some kind of sign from my Nana — a playful hello or I’m thinking about you.

A few months ago my younger brother texted me to ask me about my Nana. My brother is fourteen years younger than me and he has very few memories of my grandparents. For him, he and my brother were just annoyances to Nana. For me, she was my greatest fan and my staunchest ally. When I shared my own memories of Nana with my brother it was as if we were remembering two completely different people. 

In one form of meditation I practice we are invited to bring into our consciousness a memory of a person, a time, or a place where we feel loved, comforted, and accepted exactly as we are. Almost always I imagine myself — age 8, 9, 10, 20, 23 — getting off of the elevator to Nana standing at her front door, arms spread wide, waiting in position to wrap me into a giant hug.

It’s a feeling that’s seared into my memory and reinforced over years of recalling that same memory. I believe that we hold certain crystal clear memories — memories filled with more detail and specificity than others — because we learned something important from that experience. It is memorable. It matters. 

I have other crystal clear memories as well, memories that aren’t so beautiful. Those memories also taught me something about the world and my place in it. But for those memories, I need healing, cleansing, therapy.

My memory of Nana, arms outstretched, hugging the air even before I get there to fill the space in front of her, is a nourishing memory. It feeds my soul and fills my heart. I know my brother’s memory of Nana is the more common one. Many people in my extended family missed out on the Nana that I knew. For whatever reason she did not give them what she gave me. 

I remember when Nana was dying. She was 82 and had liver cancer. I was living across the country from her, a young professional in my late twenties. I took a week off of work and went back to stay with my Nana and Papa to help take care of her. 

By that time Nana was spending a lot of time in bed. I spent my days with her. Lounging on Papa’s side of their big king-sized mattress at the back of their apartment. Nana had a cassette recorder by the bed and she’d put in one of her classical tapes, close her eyes and hum along. Nana would point to her chest of drawers across from the bed and instruct me to pull out a tray of jewelry or scarves.

She gave me her wedding ring, a one-inch simple gold band that stretches from the bottom of my second knuckle all the way to the first. I wear it to every fancy party, graduation, wedding or other important celebration. She also gifted me several of the big chunky necklaces that she used to wear. I still have them hanging in my bedroom, jewelry I never wear, but seeing them still reminds me of her.

This morning I had an emotional hangover. I had a hellish day at work yesterday, filled with a thousand moments of wanting to throw in the towel. As I walked to my meditation cushion I knew today would be a day of clean up, recovery and hard future planning. My morning meditation ritual would be more important today than usual.

And it was. Just as I finished my morning poem, the lamp went off. I felt a spark of joy right away. This was a sign from Nana and perfect timing for the start of my meditation. I closed my eyes I went to that memory —  the warm, comforting, supported hug place that Nana gave me. 

As I sat, eyes closed in the dark, breathing her memory into my body, I felt okay. I felt supported and loved. Everything would be okay. Today would be hard but I would get through it. When I got up to go to the kitchen I walked by the orange glass lamp and it turned on again. Thank you Nana, I love you too.