Dark Days

December begins. The darkness is heavy this morning and I don’t want to get out of bed. The winter solstice is three weeks away and already I’m over-darkened.

I’ve been dreaming about an old job I had running a school. In the dream, I’m about to lead a meeting and I have no idea what the purpose of the meeting is. Staff and students begin to drift in, I don’t know anyone, but they seem to know me. I’m slightly panicked trying to figure out what to do. It’s a familiar dream and in thinking about it now, I wonder why I never even consider asking someone to help me. In this dream, and too often in my life, I figure I’ve got to figure it out on my own.

In the early morning darkness, the feeling of the dream reverberates through me as I drift into consciousness. It’s quarter to five in the morning, time to get up and make tea and write, but I don’t want to get out of bed. I decide to wait a little to see if I can figure out what is going on. What is this place I’m in? I wait for some inspiration but nothing comes. Maybe I won’t write this morning. I’m trying to write about the fullness of being alive, and this dark place is certainly part of the experience of being human. But I worry that I write about it too much. Once in a while is fine, but shouldn’t I be over this by now?

I remember what I wrote about yesterday and decide try to follow my own advice: feel your feelings, remember your purpose, then take the next step.

I lie still in the warm darkness of my bed. I notice a general sense of dread. Just yesterday I was adventuring with my grandson—out for a walk in the wonder of the twilight wind and rain, delighting in stomping and splashing in the large puddle at the end of the driveway. This morning, I don’t want to get out of bed.

What am I feeling? It seems like a simple question, but it’s actually quite challenging and profound. It’s hard to pause long enough to look around. I’m either lost in thought or just wanting not to be here. I don’t want to move. Heavy. Dull. I’m not really sad or angry. The sense of dread is non-specific. Some kind of fear. I scan ahead over the day ahead—there’s nothing much there. Some ongoing issues, but nothing to match this feeling of darkness.

I roll over and face the wall, staying in the country of darkness. I am sleepy. I really don’t want to get up. OK – I guess this is what I’m feeling this morning. Not a pleasant place and not a place I’m particularly proud to be in, but here I am.

So what’s my purpose? Here I get stuck all over again. All the words I say to myself feel dead and powerless. I can’t think of any purpose that makes sense. I’m just lying under the covers of my bed and don’t want to emerge into the cold of my morning room.

What is my purpose? To be truthful (with myself and with others) about the fullness of my experience of being human. This has a glimmer of resonance in the dark world and will have to do for this morning.

Now—take the next step. I roll over, turn back the covers and put my feet on the floor. I put on sox and a new birthday sweater then walk quietly through the darkened house to the kitchen to make some tea.

Now, as I write, the darkness inside recedes slightly. I am comforted by my tea, the warmth of the blanket over my legs and by this weird place of self-revelation and self-exploration. I am truly embarrassed by myself sometimes and yet continue in this practice of daily exposure.

I suppose it’s the adventure of it all that keeps me going. I never know what I will stumble upon as I write—the aliveness of an image, a thought, a memory. Like my grandson, though I rarely venture out beyond the end of the driveway of my experience, I do seem to find ample puddles to stomp in. Like him, I sometimes sit down in the puddles to play with the floating leaves—without worry of wetness or cold or what happens next. And I suppose, like him, I am protected and supported by forces in the universe that are beyond my comprehension.

There is danger in the wind and water of a cold night. There is danger in the hidden places of the psyche. But also, there are adventures to be had and new wonders to be uncovered. This morning I suppose it’s enough to drag the wet leaf of myself through the puddle once again and exclaim, in the middle of a rainstorm, at its marvelous wetness.