About
Welcome to the Lantern Room
It was the sort of morning that convinces most people to stay home by the fire and let the Atlantic rage unwitnessed.
Naturally, I went outside.
Bleary-eyed and goose-fleshed, I stood beneath a sky the color of old iron and watched the waves break against the stone. It was like watching a blacksmith at an anvil, hammering away at something enormous and invisible, making and remaking the world one thunderous blow at a time.
I have never forgotten it.
I have a friend who collects people. I understand the impulse. I practice it myself.
But my real passion is collecting moments.
A morning at the edge of the Atlantic. A particular song at exactly the right hour. A conversation that changes something you didn't know needed changing. A face glimpsed across a room. A road taken for no particularly good reason. A cup of tea gone cold because the book was too good to put down.
The moments we might otherwise walk straight past.
I collect those.
I write them down because memory is a strange and unreliable keeper, and because perhaps someday someone will leaf through these pages and see the world a little differently. Perhaps they will notice something they might otherwise have missed.
Maybe not.
I'll write them down anyway.
I've written many times about water and stone, and about the strange relationship between them. Water seems restless and temporary, forever moving toward somewhere else. Stone seems permanent and immovable.
But give them enough time and the distinction disappears.
The water changes the stone.
The stone changes the water.
And both endure.
That seems to me a useful way to think about a life.
Which brings me to the lighthouse.
I have always been fascinated by what a lighthouse represents.
Patient watchfulness.
Sturdiness in the face of tremendous power.
Putting the needs of others ahead of your own comfort.
Keeping the light burning when nobody is there to thank you for it.
And perhaps most importantly, a light does not exist for the lighthouse keeper.
It exists for the person who needs to see it.
Not everyone cares about lighthouses. That's perfectly all right. But for those who do, they are extraordinary things. When the weather turns and the sea begins to seethe and boil, there is enormous comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, someone is still keeping watch.
I like to imagine the keeper.
A lone figure, perhaps with a companion, living in some improbable tower at the edge of the world. Books stacked everywhere. Puzzles half-finished on the table. Pens and paper within reach. Music playing loudly enough that neither the gulls nor the surf would think to complain.
Long stretches of solitude interrupted by the climb up the spiral staircase.
A kettle always close at hand.
A window looking out toward the horizon.
Perhaps the old writer in me will someday find himself living in a real lighthouse, and the romance of the idea will be quenched by reality as cold as the Atlantic water pounding the rocks.
Until then, I'll settle for this.
I'll call myself a Keeper.
And we'll call this place the Lantern Room.
A room high above the turmoil.
A quiet place to sit for a while, safe from the daily roil and boil. A place for stories, observations, photographs, music, questions, wandering, wonder, and the occasional bit of nonsense.
Maybe you'll find something here that gives you comfort.
Maybe something will give you insight.
Maybe you'll recognize yourself in something I wrote.
Maybe you'll disagree with me completely.
Or maybe you simply needed somewhere else to be for a little while.
Whatever brings you here, dear reader, you are welcome.
Come up the stairs.
Stay as long as you like.
Read the books.
Listen to the music.
Look out toward the water.
And if the weather is particularly dreadful, come inside and warm yourself by the fire.
I'll put the kettle on.
You can tell me about the places you've been, the places you're going, the things you've lost, the things you've found, and the strange, improbable adventure of being alive.
The light will be on.
It usually is.
WELCOME TO THE LANTERN ROOM.
I am your Keeper.
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“May your seas be wide enough for wonder, your harbor always waiting, and your light never fail when another soul is searching.” – The Lantern Keeper