Well, Alex, I think you and I could have a whole conversation about this topic.
I contemplated the wisdom of the dark about five years ago when I was passively suicidal, and nothing and no one consoled me.
That's when I considered that maybe the metaphor of darkness meant something for the existential barrenness I felt. I thought of the things you listed, too - how beautiful things grow in the dark: a caterpillar in its chrysalis, a seed under the earth, a child in the womb.
Then I realized that darkness wanted to mentor me, to show me its quiet presence and teach me how to confront my own shadows and fears.
It was during this time I also read Miriam Greenspan's book, "Healing Through the Dark Emotions." Her language centering around grief, fear, and despair dramatically changed me. Fundamentally changed the way I understood darkness.
I think of the moon and how it reflects the sun, and now I see that both light and dark work in tandem - that one is never fully itself without the other. So I have come to love them both for what they are to me.
This is a great piece about a very basic human fear. I've come to believe that most people don't actually fear the dark, they fear the unknown, the ghouls provided by their imaginations. My sister was terrified of the dark growing up. We had nightlights for her everywhere. I remember telling her when I was very young, that I knew that there's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light. I don't believe that anymore. There is something in the darkness, that isn't present when it's light. We put a lot of there ourselves. I am happy you're embracing the night. Love, Virg
Ah, Virg, I love this comment so much. And after writing this article, I've had so many more experiences between lightness and darkness that has brought forward an even more nuanced understanding of these two exciting forces. We cannot have one without the other. And what worries me is how much expectation we also put on the light, and how much burden it carries.
This one hits deep in the dark. I too remember being a kid needing the nightlight, or the closet light, or the hall light left on for that sliver to appear under the door.
I also remember when my eyesight started going when I was ten, and contemplating what life would be like if I couldn’t see at all and everything went dark.
What happened then? My sense of hearing improved. So much so that it became hyper aware. It’s now my super power.
When we sink into the darkness, miracles and magick can happen. We only have to let it all happen.
Thank you for this. As I read, I imagined myself sitting on my own front porch as darkness falls. Not turning on the light. Taking walks in the moonlight, as I did every night during my shaman trainings. Something always appeared in my other senses on those walks.
When we allow ourselves to settle without light/sight our other senses can emerge in truly profound ways. That’s where intuition develops and exercises itself.
So much of this resonated—the hush, the waiting, the shift. It made me wonder what I’ve been too quick to brighten instead of sitting with. Thank you for offering such a tender way in, Alex
Alex, I appreciate the beauty of your description of how allowing ourselves to notice whatever is present in the darkness shifts our relationship to our world and ourselves. This isn’t an easy lesson for me. My instinct is to light a candle and rush darkness away, whether that’s towards sunrise or an “easier” internal emotional state. But I’m learning to at least delay striking the match and to look around for what is only accessible in the dark. Thank you for the reminder!
During a particularly difficult season years ago, a friend sent me a watercolor quote on a postcard from Anne Lamott that I’d forgotten about—until I read your beautiful words. I clung to that message for years: “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”
Thank you for this stunning reminder of the value born from our darkest days.
Wow Alex! Each time the email comes with your latest writing I am gifted once more. Your experiences spark something within me that cause me to stop, think and reflect on my own experiences and feelings about the topics you share. To this day I have a quirky night ritual that started when my bed became a recliner chair. Even though we have great adjustable beds, I am still unable to sleep in my elongated twin one. Whenever I tried, I could barely stand nor walk for at least three days afterward. However, back to my recliner. I find my quirkiest action in darkness is sleeping with the cover over my head, but I must have the TV playing at the same time at the lowest volume. There is light that comes from it that every so often goes dark for a brief moment before shining through once more. Sleep comes to me after my head is inside the darkness of the cover, but just knowing that “light” will be there if I remove the cover from my head is the comfort I must subconsciously seek. I had not given this much thought until I read your latest essay/chapter. I summit I must be afraid of the dark yet find some form of comfort in it at the same time. Perhaps it is my own quirkiness that is at play. I find under that cover I can pray for others and drift off to sleep without ever realizing I fell asleep. So I am guessing that is my own way of warding off the sounds and shadows that come at night in the darkness. Thank you for everything you share, I am so grateful.
Thank you Alexander! A great reminder to get comfortable with those things we fear - to let those dark, quiet places become places for deep learning. Thanks for a great read!
Well, Alex, I think you and I could have a whole conversation about this topic.
I contemplated the wisdom of the dark about five years ago when I was passively suicidal, and nothing and no one consoled me.
That's when I considered that maybe the metaphor of darkness meant something for the existential barrenness I felt. I thought of the things you listed, too - how beautiful things grow in the dark: a caterpillar in its chrysalis, a seed under the earth, a child in the womb.
Then I realized that darkness wanted to mentor me, to show me its quiet presence and teach me how to confront my own shadows and fears.
It was during this time I also read Miriam Greenspan's book, "Healing Through the Dark Emotions." Her language centering around grief, fear, and despair dramatically changed me. Fundamentally changed the way I understood darkness.
I think of the moon and how it reflects the sun, and now I see that both light and dark work in tandem - that one is never fully itself without the other. So I have come to love them both for what they are to me.
I feel the same. Thank you Jeannie for the mention of the book by M. Greenspan. I will look for it today.
You’re welcome, Jeannine. I hope it is helpful to you.
Nice reframe. Thanks
Thanks for being here and reading! 🩵
Thank you Alexander. Just the right words that I needed to read today.
Thank you, Jeannine! I’m so glad the words found you right at the right time!
This is a great piece about a very basic human fear. I've come to believe that most people don't actually fear the dark, they fear the unknown, the ghouls provided by their imaginations. My sister was terrified of the dark growing up. We had nightlights for her everywhere. I remember telling her when I was very young, that I knew that there's nothing in the dark that isn't there in the light. I don't believe that anymore. There is something in the darkness, that isn't present when it's light. We put a lot of there ourselves. I am happy you're embracing the night. Love, Virg
Ah, Virg, I love this comment so much. And after writing this article, I've had so many more experiences between lightness and darkness that has brought forward an even more nuanced understanding of these two exciting forces. We cannot have one without the other. And what worries me is how much expectation we also put on the light, and how much burden it carries.
Dear friend.
This one hits deep in the dark. I too remember being a kid needing the nightlight, or the closet light, or the hall light left on for that sliver to appear under the door.
I also remember when my eyesight started going when I was ten, and contemplating what life would be like if I couldn’t see at all and everything went dark.
What happened then? My sense of hearing improved. So much so that it became hyper aware. It’s now my super power.
When we sink into the darkness, miracles and magick can happen. We only have to let it all happen.
Thank you for this. As I read, I imagined myself sitting on my own front porch as darkness falls. Not turning on the light. Taking walks in the moonlight, as I did every night during my shaman trainings. Something always appeared in my other senses on those walks.
When we allow ourselves to settle without light/sight our other senses can emerge in truly profound ways. That’s where intuition develops and exercises itself.
So much of this resonated—the hush, the waiting, the shift. It made me wonder what I’ve been too quick to brighten instead of sitting with. Thank you for offering such a tender way in, Alex
Alexander, you draw pictures with your words. And you are ever so brave.
Alex, I appreciate the beauty of your description of how allowing ourselves to notice whatever is present in the darkness shifts our relationship to our world and ourselves. This isn’t an easy lesson for me. My instinct is to light a candle and rush darkness away, whether that’s towards sunrise or an “easier” internal emotional state. But I’m learning to at least delay striking the match and to look around for what is only accessible in the dark. Thank you for the reminder!
Thank you, Alex. I have often thought about what the darkness has to teach me, and always conclude that its way more than I initially thought.
During a particularly difficult season years ago, a friend sent me a watercolor quote on a postcard from Anne Lamott that I’d forgotten about—until I read your beautiful words. I clung to that message for years: “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”
Thank you for this stunning reminder of the value born from our darkest days.
Wow Alex! Each time the email comes with your latest writing I am gifted once more. Your experiences spark something within me that cause me to stop, think and reflect on my own experiences and feelings about the topics you share. To this day I have a quirky night ritual that started when my bed became a recliner chair. Even though we have great adjustable beds, I am still unable to sleep in my elongated twin one. Whenever I tried, I could barely stand nor walk for at least three days afterward. However, back to my recliner. I find my quirkiest action in darkness is sleeping with the cover over my head, but I must have the TV playing at the same time at the lowest volume. There is light that comes from it that every so often goes dark for a brief moment before shining through once more. Sleep comes to me after my head is inside the darkness of the cover, but just knowing that “light” will be there if I remove the cover from my head is the comfort I must subconsciously seek. I had not given this much thought until I read your latest essay/chapter. I summit I must be afraid of the dark yet find some form of comfort in it at the same time. Perhaps it is my own quirkiness that is at play. I find under that cover I can pray for others and drift off to sleep without ever realizing I fell asleep. So I am guessing that is my own way of warding off the sounds and shadows that come at night in the darkness. Thank you for everything you share, I am so grateful.
Thank you Alexander! A great reminder to get comfortable with those things we fear - to let those dark, quiet places become places for deep learning. Thanks for a great read!
Brightness and darkness,
vital, indispensable.
Each taking their turn.
...
Hallowed be halos,
moments of totality.
Dark, quiet pauses.
...
Young blossom petals,
pale, soft, smooth, tiny, tender.
Glow in deep dark nights.
...
May love’s light lead us
when our eyes can’t find a path,
when darkness blinds us.
...
In the dark tunnels,
we will fuel each other’s lamps.
Find our way to light.