nourishing darkness

It was exceptionally dark this morning. A cold, waning moon hung above the pond, stars invisible behind clouds. It was exceptionally quiet, too; an anticipation of snow. The pre-Christmas traffic I’d been hearing now stilled on Christmas Eve morning. Quoting The New Zealand Prayer Book’s Night Prayer: “what has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done. Let it be.”

I light candles. I light candles a lot. There’s something in that ritual that soothes and encourages me, so this morning I lit the candles I’d bought years ago at the Unitarian’s Christmas Craft Fair, slim red tapers that I had no holder for until I spied a flower frog in the cabinet that’s doing the job handily, further illuminating surfaces through its thick glass base. I like to think the frog is happy to keep Christmas, and not just Spring and Summer.

For most of my life, I’ve been chasing the sun and gobbling up strong daylight for spiritual and emotional sustenance. But I’ve recently returned from Iceland, where Islanders in December only dimly see the sun for about three hours a day. It was weirdly different to wake in the dark, remain in the dark through the beginning of a business day, start to see a rosy sky just before lunchtime, only to experience dusk scant hours later. Icelanders cope, and some flourish. Conversations revealed that many sleep a lot in Winter, read a lot, party a lot and quaff gallons of coffee and Coca-Cola. Iceland has the highest per-capita consumption of Coca-Cola in the world. Sugar and bubbles … huh.

To no one’s surprise, Reykjavik’s sidewalks are icy, but the only people wearing boots or ice cleats were tourists. It was fun to watch construction workers, shopkeepers and office dwellers navigate the terrain deftly in leather-soled shoes, sneakers and heels, and all in the dark.

One morning, my friend and I walked across town before the sun rose to visit the National Gallery. The museum is located in the city center, across from government buildings and a large pond. Amber streetlights oddly warmed the scenery, as some schoolchildren broke ranks and dashed across the iced-over pond to a fountain in its center. All in view seemed to be enjoying the start of a new day, in the dark.

Home now for a few weeks and enveloped in Christmas prep, I’m realizing that I’m developing a new friendship with darkness. Instead of avoiding it (which is impossible), I’m learning to enjoy it: enjoy it for its warmth, enjoy it for its comfort, enjoy its invitation to slow down, enjoy the contrasts it reveals. Like brilliant starlight and owl callings, like sound enhancement and held mystery. Things grow in the dark, things rest in the dark, and candles in the daylight emit little.

Days are lengthening again, I’m glad, and I’m not giving up my happy light, a very useful tool for helping to balance physical and emotional health, but as Christmas Eve is just hours away, I am grateful for the darkness that births newness, grateful for what both darkness and light reveal.

Happy Christmastide, All.