There is a stretch of road outside the village where the streetlights give up and the dark takes over. For years I drove it with the high beams on and my shoulders somewhere near my ears. Then one autumn a neighbour hung a lantern from the old oak at the bend, the kind with real glass and a real wick, and left it burning every night of the winter.
It didn’t light the road. It couldn’t; it was one small flame against a very big night. But it gave the dark a shape. You could see where the bend was, and how far you had come, and that someone had thought about you passing. I think about that lantern whenever I’m tempted to believe I have to fix everything at once. Most nights all anyone needs is one steady light at the bend.