My Ode to Darkness
Devotions: Halloween Edition
This year, Halloween happens to coincide with the turning back of the clocks here in the U.K., meaning the end of British Summer Time and the official start to a dark winter. Today’s sunset is at 4:34pm, which is a horror in itself. I love the sun. I love the way it shines through the gaps in the trees, blinking light. I love opening my blinds every morning and watching it sweep across my living room. I miss it when it’s gone. Still, I’m trying to be okay with its early disappearance, to not mourn the loss as much.
I was afraid of the dark as a child, as most of us were. I had a big fear of thunderstorms, and my parents would sit with me in the bathroom on those stormy nights, bringing me plates of food and stacks of books to distract me. The loud noises were the worst part, but the lightning freaked me out too. Looking back, I find it a bit ironic, since lightning provides a flicker of visibility in a dark and stormy world. I was obsessed with weather as a child, and learned to count the seconds between light and sound to determine if it was getting farther away. It was like a warning — my hands would shoot up to my ears the moment I saw it. Even the darkest, scariest thing to me had an element of light to it. Consider the moon, lighthouses, how the stars get brighter in places with less city light, and the comfort all of those have brought over millions of years, for people and things looking for a way to navigate the unknown.
I think about the people in Scandanavia, who go through six months of near-darkness yet are still considered the happiest people on earth. The Danish word hygge — a word defined as “a quality of cosiness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being”— comes from the sixteenth-century Norwegian word hugga, meaning “to comfort or console”. It’s found in candles and lamps, blankets and thick warm socks, cups of hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. Danish doctors suggest tea and hygge as a cure for the common cold, but it is also a way to ward off symptoms of SAD (Seasonal Depressive Disorder). There is always way to find joy and light, even in the deepest and longest darkness.
When I first moved to London, everyone warned me about the winter. It’s dark and wet and cold and windy. The sun must be hibernating, with how often it comes out. My mom gave me a perscribed weekly dose of Vitamin D to take. And surely, my first winter here was really difficult. I’m preparing gently for this one. The first thing I did in my flat was change the lighting to make it softer and more welcoming. I bought lamps and slippers and nice smelling candles. I’m working on waking up earlier, to take more walks. There’s a lot we can do to cope with the darkness, but it’s worth trying to find good in the darkness itself.
Today’s poem is How Dark the Beginning by Maggie Smith:
All we ever talk of is light— let there be light, there was light then, good light—but what I consider dawn is darker than all that. So many hours between the day receding and what we recognize as morning, the sun cresting like a wave that won’t break over us—as if light were protective, as if no hearts were flayed, no bodies broken on a day like today. In any film, the sunrise tells us everything will be all right. Danger wouldn’t dare show up now, dragging its shadow across the screen. We talk so much of light, please let me speak on behalf of the good dark. Let us talk more of how dark the beginning of a day is.
I love this poem. I never really thought about it this way, how beginnings always start with darkness. Everything is dark until the lights are turned on, until the sun comes up. Like that feeling when you’re at a concert or a film and the lights go off. People get excited, because it signals the start of something wonderful and anticipated. They say it’s always darkest right before the dawn, and there is relief in that darkness, knowing the sun will rise soon.
I think it’s important to correlate physical darkness with its presence as a feeling. All the lights can be on, but we can still feel so dark. It’s hard to find the beauty in that. I don’t think anything can replace the sun, but even in a starless sky, we can wish on satellites. If the moon is covered by the clouds, let yourself sunbathe under a streetlamp. Sometimes, artificial light can be enough. Even though it doesn’t feel like it. As long as we still believe in the sunrise, it’ll be fine.
Louise Glück wrote in “October”:
This is the light of autumn; it has turned on us. Surely it is a privilege to approach the end still believing in something.
Further Reading
"The Coming of Light” by Mark Strand
Excerpt from “Candlelight” by Adonis
“In Praise of Darkness” from The Marginalian [formerly Brain Pickings]
“Shedding Light” by Pamela Petro for Guernica Magazine
What I Enjoyed This Week
Recent Reads
Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng. This was such an easy and engaging read, but wow, it was sad. It follows a mixed-race Chinese-American family whose middle daughter Lydia is found drowned in a nearby lake. Ng does family drama and portraiture so incredibly well. Though I didn’t find myself connecting with the characters much, the characters were well-rounded and completely three-dimensional. There is a lot about cultural and familial division, and feeling like the “other”. I was heartbroken by the end of it. 3/5
"Aging is Scary and Life is A Struggle" from the Ask Polly newsletter. I love the Ask Polly column on the Cut, and a friend sent me this issue saying it reminded her of my own work, which is ever so kind and intriguing. She advises with such brash honesty, yet still a deep tenderness: Stop trying to make sense of things. You can’t think your way through this. Open your heart, and drink in this glorious day. You are young, and you will find little things that will make you grateful to be alive. Believe in what you love now, with all of your heart, and you will love more and more until everything around you is love.
Other Wonderful Things
Sufjan Stevens’ album Carrie and Lowell. I’ve nearly forgotten about this album since listening to it upon release in 2015. It has brought me a lot of company this week, despite it being a relatively sad album, I consider the strumming to be fairly uplifting when accompanied by a sunny autumn walk. My current favorite is “Death with Dignity” but I’ve always loved “Eugene” and “Should’ve Known Better”.
One of my favorite poets, Ada Limòn, is the new host of the Slowdown podcast. I’m obsessed with it. Her poetry choices are always impeccable, accompanied by a personal anecdote that is always perfectly fitting and lovingly narrated. The episodes are quite short, around 5 minutes long, and come out every weekday. I’m trying to catch up with all of them so I can add them to my morning routine. It provides the thing I love most about poetry: a slowing of life, a moment of reflection in a busy day.
I took a trip to Oxford on Thursday, and I spent an hour and a half walking around Christchurch Meadows. It’s been a while since I’ve spent that much time in nature, but I found it to be incredibly healing. Oxford in autumn is beautiful (and thank you to my friend Avery for being such a great tour guide). <3
This song, and this song, and this song. Added to the playlist!
Take care, find the light. And Happy Halloween!
<3
Tara