Leaving My Lights On

Robert Fulghum wrote a book All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.  Actually, that was not true for me.  

In 1974, when I would have been in kindergarten, Nixon enacted “Drive 55, Stay Alive.”  Around that same time, many of the light switches were covered with stickers that reminded me to turn off the lights when I was no longer in the room to conserve energy.

I have not driven 55 on the interstate by choice most of my life, and in Texas, driving 55 on I-35 would lead to a quick death.  Likewise, in my 40s and 50s, even though I still literally turn off the lights when I am not in a room, I have figuratively decided to break that rule as well.

Halloween night has reminded me of the importance of turning on my lights.  Exterior lights let kids know that you are open to providing treats, that your home is welcome to visitors, that you are welcoming and open to others.  

As a lover of metaphors, tonight is a time to remind me how important it is to leave my lights on all year long.   

Life is scary and dark for all of us, and it is so easy at times to lose the way. When you don’t know what might be in your path, it is hard to keep moving forward.  Hidden obstacles await.  Shuffling slowly forward is the only option when the flashlight batteries have gone out, and when life is confusing.

When my marriage ended in divorce, I knew no one who I could ask for advice, no one who could guide my steps.  Thankfully, my psychologist helped me traverse one of the scariest times of my life.  She predicted what might happen, and she helped me see through the fog of manipulation.  When I tripped and fell over, she was there to help me recover myself and rediscover who I was.  Although at the time I was miserable, I now am thankful that I had that experience because I have been able to be there  for others walking through similar un-anticipated moments.

I like to think that once you become broken, and perhaps re-broken, and re-broken, it allows you to throw away the scales of judgment and instead just lift a lamp.  Perhaps, brokenness keeps the spotlight on the trail rather than on the person’s face, highlighting the challenges ahead rather than the supposed failures of the person.

Perhaps, brokenness flips the exterior lights on, refusing to pick and choose who is worthy of receiving the treats.  Teenagers?  Sure.  Scary costumes?  Yes.  Those who look and act and believe differently than I?  Yes.  

When the light is on at my house, there are no worries about what visitors do with the treats.  I have no signs out like a nearby church that promises “You Belong Here,” but then voted that some belong and perhaps some don’t.  When the light is on at my house, it really means that there are no worries about anyone’s political party, sexuality, gender identity, education, mistakes, or failures, or weaknesses.  

 All I worry about is that you can see the path in front of your feet.   All I worry about is making sure I help you avoid tripping or falling.  I’ll even walk near you with my flashlight so you can see one more step ahead.   Sitting in total darkness is only better when someone is beside you holding your hand.  Perhaps I won’t be able to walk that same path, but I can at least share my flashlight and cheer you on.

So, sorry to my kindergarten self.  I have learned that I don’t have to follow all those rules I learned in 1974.  I can leave the lights on.  I can let others know that my house is open to all.  

Come rest.  I have a soft seat on my porch and a cuddly dog to pet.  

The lights are on.