It’s dark when I wake up now, and, ok, I do wake up very early, but, still. Calgary summers seem night-less—dawn breaks while we sleep and the sun sets after we go to bed. The return of night as fall nears portends the dominance of night throughout our long winter.
I don’t want to say I hate the night—I love sleep. Late night parties and conversations. Sex.
But I do dread the dark of November, December, January—it’s still there in February, really. Oppressive. Relentless. Four months of dark, during which sunlight needs to be snatched forcefully from the workday, because it is possible to start school and work, and end it, in the dark.
The dark is not conducive to life and happiness, and as my province continues to ride into a fourth wave lockdown and threaten further restrictions, I am terrified of another dark winter in isolation.
I’ve talked with my people and I know that no matter what happens, I won’t be alone. They will be my nightlight—we will be each other’s nightlight.
But—breathe—I’m afraid nevertheless
I’m afraid of being alone in the dark.
Being alone in the dark is different than being alone with the dark.
Being alone with the dark is a critical part of my creative practice. It has nothing to do with the dark outside—as the dark outside returns, I realize that I haven’t sat with the dark inside for a while and that perhaps I should.
Come, shadow. Let’s have a heart to heart.
I’ve been feeling busy—lazy—exhausted—restless—all at the same time. I want, suddenly, desperately, more than anything to take a day in bed, a non-moving sick day. But this, that and the other—I’m also afraid that if I stop moving, I’ll never start again and I have so much to do.
Instead of a day in bed, an evening in bed. A mid-day nap.
Face the dark.
I make an appointment with the dark. Put it in the calendar. Prepare three key talking points to discuss with the shadow.
We’re going to get through the dark together.