the trick of the dark
I remember being afraid of the dark. Needing to leave a light on, even if it only showed through a cracked bathroom door or a nightlight over in the corner beside the bookcase. I remember how good it felt to have a flashlight in the glove compartment, a lighter in my pocket, a motion detector solar light between the edge of the forest and me. I remember waiting for some monster to appear. A wolf that wanted to eat me. A bear that wanted to rip me to shreds. I remember the stories I told myself of the bandits who were hiding behind trees just to do me harm. Who wanted to knock me out silly and take all my stuff and leave me slumped and still, my treasures stolen.
I remember standing in the dark and sensing the space around me. I remember rattling the cages of my fears and finding they had escaped to someone else’s story. I remember seeking moonless nights, their muffled sparkle. I remember the dark as a safe place, a place for tears that need shedding, a place where dreams arrive from the edges beyond time’s illusion. I remember the ascent of that which can scribble anything onto the absence of light…like a chalkboard waiting for that first mark…that swish, that dot that says HERE is where we can start. HERE is where we can land. Right where hand touches hand, cheek touches cheek, song touches song.
The trick of the dark is to trust its invitation to stand steady. To listen. To stretch. To call forth from it without the need of light.
