The Delicate Dance Between Light and Darkness
There isn’t much light in the north at this time of year.
The sun doesn’t arrive in Beaver Creek until nearly noon and so my morning routine takes place under a shroud of darkness. The dogs and I make our way down the trails with lights affixed to each of us. School starts in the dark, the sun rising only minutes before students are dismissed for lunch.
The lack of light in the winter is something I’ve grown to love over the course of my five years in the north. But when I first moved here, the darkness was overwhelming. It felt exhausting and unsettling. Was it safe to go out in pitch black when temperatures were so low? I recall feeling suffocated by the omni-present darkness and frightened by what I felt might be hidden in its depths. When C went to work, I kept the lights on, fearful of facing the darkness on my own.
And then, slowly, I began to appreciate the gifts that came with the dark. I purchased a headlamp and ventured out in the morning and I saw the northern lights for the first time. I felt small, inexplicably small, under the vast night sky. Appreciating the darkness, I learned, was a humbling experience. I was overwhelmed by the expanse of stars and galaxies. All of it highlighted the miniscule nature of our existence within the grandeur of the universe.
Darkness became a friend. I learned to savour my mornings, turning coffee and breakfast into a slow, intentional time illuminated by candlelight and the warm glow of our living room lamp. And on walks I had my headlight. The darkness was not something to be feared.
Over the past few years, I’ve experienced periods of a different kind of darkness. A profound internal darkness (and I’ve written about it here). This darkness resulted from overwhelming feelings of self-doubt, anxiety, and shame. These related to my doctoral dissertation and the length of time it was taking me to complete it. And in large part, these feelings reflected my personal search for meaning and purpose. The darkness I experienced felt like a direct juxtaposition to the true peace and happiness I felt in many aspects of my life: A loving husband, a dog (and now dogs), and life in a beautiful place meant that I had much to be grateful for. And yet, darkness was often not far away.
My doctorate is now behind me. It’s completed, and in theory, I am free to move on to the next chapter. I am free to release myself of the darkness these last few years have held. Somehow, however, this has been more difficult than I’d anticipated. In the weeks following the completion of my degree, I awoke to the familiar uneasiness in my core that anxiety brings. I felt stagnant. Like the next chapter, one of light, was not attainable.
This past Friday, the sun didn’t rise until 11:40 am. After lunch, the school children, my colleague, and I set out on an adventure. It was brisk. -25C in fact. We brought hot chocolate, lemon loaf, and sleds. The kids were bundled in their warmest gear. As we walked through the trail, the sun sat just above the horizon. Its rays shone through the trees causing them to glimmer and glisten. It was unbelievably spectacular. My regular afternoon walk with the dogs was no different. Cotton candy skies, a setting sun, and sparkling snow.
As I walked, I thought about the light and I realized that I had it inside too. Over the past days and weeks, a lightness had been moving through me and it was as though I was awakening my former self. Laughing as I once did. Feeling mental presence. Fewer anxious thoughts. I considered this and thought about the light around me. That the beautiful thing about winter light is that the long hours of darkness brings about a greater appreciation for it. A certain reverence for the light exists. The darkness makes us value the light.
I know that light and dark are essential aspects of the human experience. I know that in order to feel one, I must know the other. I understand these things, and yet, when I’m shrouded by darkness, as much as I might tell myself that the light will return, it’s easier to say it than it is to believe it.
Somehow, seeing the parallel in nature, makes it all easier to grasp. The delicate dance between light and darkness is something that northerners are intimately aware of.
The other day, I thought about the experience of those who have never lived elsewhere. How for them, this darkness is normal. Were they to live farther south, their experience with the light would be different. This reminded me of what I learned soon after moving here. It reminded me that the darkness isn’t to be feared. It’s merely a necessity if we are to experience the light. And when we are able to recognize this, we can have a deeper appreciation for the darkness.
Even as I am closing the door on my chapter marked with darkness, I know that the door won’t remain closed. I know that there will be other periods of darkness, periods where I can’t see any signs of light and maybe even stop believing it will ever come. During these periods my years in the north will guide me. Because here, even though the darkness is long and cold and can feel endless, still the light peaks through here and there, and eventually it takes over altogether.
I’ll finish with an expression of gratitude. Gratitude for northern darkness and northern light for showing me how to be resilient, how to persevere, how to have self-compassion, and how to believe in myself.