The First Lamp

By Cathleen Hulbert

“The truth in you is as radiant as a star, as pure as light and as innocent as love itself.”
A Course in Miracles

Chapter One

Choices

Sarah threw the book and screamed.

The scream started in her gut, pushed through her aching chest and emerged from her throat like the roar of an injured lioness. As this pain was released into the ethers it merged with a multitude of other screams, cries and unspoken heartaches, the greatest of which came from the planet herself. But this was unknown to Sarah.

Momentarily shocked by the sound of her own fury, she fell back on the couch. Finally, it had come to this: one explosive protest to punctuate months of frustration and confusion. It all started when she went on a quest to understand what had become of her life. After months of therapy, Sarah had turned to books. They were cheaper than New York City shrinks and less likely to have her committed.

Now her mind shot back to the crowded Manhattan bookstore where she first cradled this book in her hands. The author’s face radiated peace. She wanted that peace. So she purchased the book with its shining author on the cover. She was tired of playing the damsel in distress and ready for a valiant and heroic explanation of why her life was upside down. Squinting, she decided that if this particular writer were placed on the back of a white horse he could possibly look like a knight. She went back to her apartment and forgot about dinner as day slipped into dusk. And as evening stretched lazily into night she felt herself relaxing and taking comfort. His words filled her up. It was her spirit that needed to be fed. Sarah sensed that she was getting ready to start a new chapter in more ways than one. She stood up to stretch and get a glass of water. She fluffed the pillows before settling back on the couch. It was then that she came face-to-face with the words that would change her life. The book had opened her heart to the possibility of radical healing. Now it issued a challenge that could be summed up in three words: extreme personal responsibility. Her stomach tightened as she read:

Consider the possibility that you are an architect of this mad version of reality that you call your life. You are probably reading this book because you have found yourself to be a player in a world that makes no sense. Looking for someone to blame, you might have avoided examining your own part. You are not alone. Our shaming culture encourages finger pointing as a survival technique. But consider your creative power as a child of God and ask yourself if you truly are a helpless victim or rather a constant creator, along with the rest of us. If you have come this far you must now resist the temptation to see yourself as a tiny, helpless fish in a big sea. That is a fishy lie told by the guilt-ridden and falsely modest part of you, your ego. It is your turn to take responsibility for what you see around you. Think about it and be honest. How can you start a bigger change without first creating the changes you want to see within yourself? It is your choice, of course. Your whole life is built on your choices. And this whole world is built on our collective choices. Guess what? That’s the good news.

“Are you nuts?” she asked. “That’s the good news?” She kicked a pillow. “You need to take that back.”

She turned the page. “Hell.” He wasn’t taking it back. Her vulnerability turned his blunt words into a sharp object that stoked her anger. And that is how the big scream was born. Still stunned by the sound of it, she brought her thoughts back to the present moment. She glared at the offender. The book now lay across the room in a crumpled heap. “You stay there!” she seethed. “This world is built on our choices? Haven’t you ever seen an abused child or a neglected old person? Don’t you watch the news?” She slid off the couch and sprawled on the floor, wanting like an angry toddler to protest with her whole body. With uncanny timing the light above her head flickered off and on, finally going out with a muted “Pop.”

“Great,” she thought, peering around the dim room. “Even the appliances want to keep me in the dark.” She began to sob. Somewhere outside an ambulance honked as it negotiated traffic. The wail of its siren merged with her cries, sending mingled sounds of urgency and grief into the night air. It seemed that the more she felt the faceless enemy advancing, the more she searched the horizon for her knight. But if a knight had ever set out on a mission to save her, clearly he had taken a wrong turn and would never make it in time. Of that she was now certain. She pounded her fist on the floor, almost daring her downstairs neighbors to pound back. “I did not choose this mess,” she shouted, still determined to set the writer straight. “I would have chosen far better than this.” As if freed by this temporary crack in her mind, different aspects of her psyche began to express themselves. She heard the grieving widow and the uprooted Southerner who missed her family back home. She heard from that part of her spirit that felt like a fallen angel, irate with God for being an absent landlord and letting the world fall apart. The fearful Catholic student inside of Sarah, always trying to smooth the waters, immediately apologized to God for the fallen angel’s brazen accusation. Then the social worker tried to comfort the worried Catholic kid, who was beginning to have an anxiety attack. She declared that it was fine, even appropriate, to be steaming mad. Sarah kicked the pillow again and looked upward. “Why do we have to suffer?” she demanded. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking, God!”

Through it all, there was the ever-present journalist within, a remnant of her first career, reporting grimly that madness had overtaken the world. Sarah had roughly the same number of inner voices as anyone else. But tonight they were competing for the microphone. She listened for a while then grew tired of the noise and rolled over on her back, studying the cracks in the ceiling. Only her inner comedienne was utterly speechless, although Sarah managed to say, “Well, that was lovely,” as she pulled herself up into a sitting position. She ran a hand through her long brown hair. For a moment the room seemed to grow bright. Puzzled, she looked around for the source of this light.

“Note to self,” she said, exhausted. “Figure out what in the hell that was all about.” She stood, reaching to turn on a lamp. Her eyes caught sight of an overturned glass, its contents spreading across the hardwood floor. The floor seemed to vibrate a little, coaxing the spill into a rounded shape with flippers. Uneasy, she grabbed a sweatshirt off the couch and threw it on the image, which had begun to look a lot like a turtle. She walked over to the book, kicking it a little with her toe. She half expected it to kick back. Studying the cover she looked the author straight in the eyes.

“Right, I chose this. We all chose this.” Her moment of regret turned to disgust. The book landed in the trash with a thud.