In the dark of morning before floorboards crack and pipes fill, I’ve found I write more freely. It surprises me that I find peace in a place that often leaves me feeling so very lonely.
In the dark there is silence, a swallowing still.
A current lulls and rocks and washes refreshing, steel-blue.
It’s consuming yet intimate enough to curve into the slivers of the soul that fade,
still whispering, with the rising
of the sun.
In the dark, we hear.
In the dark, we listen.
In the dark, we find rest.
In the dark,
the most shadowed corners of the soul are
free from hiding,
free from playing dress-up,
the dark is where our souls rest.
The light shines in
downright distortions of what is real, of what is true.
But in darkness lies hidden beauty,
glimmering in the pitch of night.
There’s an absence of hiding that happens at night. An acute knowing of the spaces within ourselves that are not yet what we hope for the fabric of our souls. It used to frighten me to be that alone with myself. It was a time and space where fears left unspoken in the daylight, fears of who I was and who I was not, would fill my lungs.
In the light of day, the demands that stream with the sun and the coming and going of a life allow for a measure of distance from fear. But when darkness tucks in around the edges, in our most truthful places we can hear what N.T. Wright calls the echos of a voice.
At night, we’re left unclothed by the demands of daylight and given countless opportunities to make ourselves at home with all we cannot see, cannot know.
I’m learning that making peace with what appears the most frightening by walking straight into it, is the way to overcome it. Not because darkness disappears once the sun starts to rise in the morning, but because within the darkness, within the hurt and pain, at the very center of the absence of control there is a new dimension of light. A dimension that we hear with our hands and feel with our eyes.
I believe we can spend our whole lives maintaining a measure of distance from our fears but that we can’t escape them completely, because they curl up tightly and rest in the small of a back, the curve of a neck. They nudge us with a continual insistence that we’ve forgotten or neglected something important.
Does the stillness in the middle of the night unsettle you? Have you found comfort there? Have you learned things about yourself or things about God that you might share?