Listening in the dark

One half of our lives is spent in the dark.  Maybe more, maybe less, but I don't want to take the time to do the math.  One half.

I'm not talking about metaphysical dark - times of deep emotion, grievous loss, remembered abandonment - I am just talking about the dark, that time when the sun has set, the birds have quieted, and for most of us, the street lights have come on.

Dark is the time when we awake suddenly from sleep and must take some time to re-orient ourselves to our surroundings.  Dark is the time when the power goes off and moving about your house is dangerous because somehow your furniture has multiplied in the dark and  you keep banging into stuff.  

Dark is that time of day when we are inclined to stand still.  At first it might be because we don't want twisted ankles or bruised shins.  But if we wait it out, if we in fact stand still for more than a moment, we might discover that the dark is a place where we can stand still.

We don't have to rush off to do something else.  We don't have to answer a phone, an email, a knock at the door.  We can stand still.  Quietly.  And listen to the dark.

We listen for the sounds of the night - scurrying and fluttering; the quiet stealth of a deer looking for some tender shoots to eat, a cat out on the prowl for some night adventure.  We can listen to the trees moving, settling, growing.  We can listen to the sound of our own breathing, in and out, in a rhythm that might just match a rhythm of the night.  We can listen to the pulse of life - not the pounding beat of noon day sun, but the steady pulsing flow of life giving blood through a million veins: bringing nourishment, rest, renewal.

It is easy to forget how much this quiet listening in the darkness restores us, how much we need it.  

Perhaps the most natural remedy for the human condition is a good dose of quietness in the dark, where the power of life has a chance to call us back into ourselves, re-connecting us with the wholeness of the life around us.