Nothing About This Lamp Was Efficient

A story about effort, waiting, and learning to live inside the process.

I wanted a lamp.

Not in a poetic way. In a practical, end-of-day, the-room-needs-light way. I don’t want to turn on the rude overhead lighting at 6:30 am.

I looked at the obvious places first. Hema. IKEA. BOL, Google search results. All fine, all cheap. All exactly what you expect. None of them felt right. They worked, but they didn’t belong in this new vision we are crafting for our home and our lives.

So we went vintage shopping instead.

We found a small shop tucked into a side street, the kind that sells mismatched glasses and heavy wooden chairs and things that clearly lived a life before you found them. There was a stone lamp base sitting on a low shelf. Solid, cool to the touch. €30.

That was just the beginning.

It needed rewiring. We needed an outlet splitter. Then we needed a lampshade. None of the vintage shops had one that fit. So we threw in the towel hoping to find something on the internet that would work. On the way home, we passed a shop that makes custom stained glass. The kicker? The shop was closed until Monday so we went back. Inside, tucked among the windows, was a shade. €98. The harp kit was €7.50.

Then I decided I wanted a switch on the cord. And a bulb that didn’t feel too harsh. That was another stop and €15.

It took days, multiple stops, time waiting between errands.

€150 and many small decisions later, the lamp was finished.

It sits on our new coffee bar now. Slightly imperfect, full of character and completely ours. Every morning, when I shuffle in to make an espresso, it will greet me first.

In the U.S., this would have been a single transaction. A few clicks, a delivery window and a box on the porch.

Here, everything requires more of me.

I can order things online, but I have to be home when they arrive because I have yet to figure out those delivery lockers.

You can make appointments, but not quickly. You can get answers, but not all at once. Progress happens in pieces, spaced out over days and weeks.

Living in the Netherlands is work for us.

Not hard work. Not even unpleasant work. Just… effort.

The kind that asks you to participate instead of consume.

We have been talking a lot about being more intentional with what we collect and how we spend our hard-earned money, especially since the USD to EURO conversion is painful. Not to mention the environmental impact of the shit we all buy.

My husband used to describe something from his military service as “hurry up and wait.” You do everything you’re supposed to do, as quickly and correctly as possible, and then you wait. The waiting isn’t optional. Complaining doesn’t change the system. You just learn to live inside it.

That’s what this move has felt like.

The bureaucracy.

The paperwork.

The systems that don’t bend to urgency or preference.

You prepare, you show up, and then you wait again. We’re still waiting on our letter to tell us to schedule an appointment to go pickup our drivers licenses.

At first, it feels inefficient and frustrating. Almost unnecessary.

And then something shifts.

Because when things take effort, you notice them more.

You remember where you found the lamp base. You remember the shop with the stained glass. You remember the conversations, the wrong turns, the pauses in between. The object holds the memory of the work it required.

I’ll never forget the couple at the glass shop who told me to “have fun with my lamp.” Their English was broken, but I knew exactly what they meant.

I still remember shopping with my Grandmother when I was young and she would have to go to multiple stores to find the things she wanted. Then after a long day of shopping, bags in the trunk she went home and curled up to read a book and watch Survivor because all of that effort was slightly exhausting.

The same is true of this life.

When nothing is immediate, you stop rushing toward the next thing. You start paying attention to the moment you’re in. The waiting isn’t empty, it’s formative. I keep reminding myself that I was born and bred in convenience culture and I have to unlearn that over here.

I didn’t just end up with a lamp. I ended up more present, more aware, more attached to the life we’re building because I’m actively helping build it.

Sometimes I miss how easy things were. I could run to Lowe’s and get everything I needed and be home with my favorite tea as a bonus stop (u-turns included).

But then I turn on the lamp. The one that took time and lots of required effort. The one I can’t imagine replacing.

And I understand why this life feels heavier in my hands.

It’s the reason the life feels real and is not actually a reel.

Anyway, here’s my beautiful lamp and the lesson that lives with it now.