Dark

In “Accidental Babies” by Damien Rice, there’s a line that asks, “Is he dark enough? Enough to see your light?”

I have spent years hiding from the dark.

I think most people fear the unknown. They don’t want to know what actually lurks in those shadows. What breathes in the navy blue of a crystalline winter night.

I know exactly what stands behind me. I know precisely what writhes beneath the stones I do not lift. I know what is crouching in the corner I will not turn to see.

And I fear it.

But on this darkest evening of the year, I have learned it is not the dark itself I fear, for how many times have I stepped outside long after the world sleeps and lifted my face to the sky without the slightest qualm?

In fact, I think I may crave the dark, just a little.

It is in the dark when I feel least alone. It is in the dark when all my life’s experiences are echoed back at me in the pages of a book, the strain of the violin in a sad song, the stanzas of an old poem. It is in the dark when I see the souls of kindred spirits sparking back at me, faintly, just for a moment.

It is my dark that fuels my own light. It is my dark that enables me to step into the shoes of those who suffer. It is my dark that causes me to stand bravely and throw a lifeline to those who drown. I need this, my darkness, to light my way.

In the dark, I am not alone.

There’s a monster there, but there is also empathy. And rest.