When the Light Returns
I was sure I wouldn’t be impacted. Sure the sun’s forceful return would be no match for my rock-solid circadian rhythm. I even recall telling a friend, a long-time northerner at that, that I would have no problem – absolutely no problem whatsoever– adjusting to the midnight sun despite twenty-nine years living in the south. I’d keep my routine. Adhere to my rigid ‘early to bed, early to rise’ mantra and life would carry on.
Well, I was wrong. Very wrong.
Up here in the north, every spring, after months of near perpetual darkness, the midnight sun returns to centre stage. At first its presence is gradual, barely noticeable. The longer days are acknowledged and signs of spring are welcomed. And then, it takes over. Darkness no longer exists. Dusk is the only reminder that it was ever a thing. Eleven p.m. rolls around and you suddenly realize that bedtime has come and gone. Long gone. And yet, it’s still light out.
The light brings out a manic energy you had no idea you were capable of. An excitement and enthusiasm for the most benign tasks. Vacuuming? Yes, please! Reorganizing all my closets? Sign me up! A new hobby? Bring it on. Initially, this vigour is welcomed. Perfect timing, you think, for spring cleaning. And then comes the fatigue. The realisation that you stayed up too darn late or that you bit off just a bit more than you could chew.
After our first spring when I was filled with wonderful and naïve confidence that I would not and could not be affected by mother nature’s might, I’ve learned to be prepared. We now have blackout curtains. And blinds. We observe a militaristic bedtime schedule. Most of all, I acknowledge just how wrong I was. That first experience of midnight sun was exhausting!
As a society, we place considerable emphasis on the importance of light, but we don’t talk much about the impact near-constant light can have. The assumption tends to be that there is a positive correlation between increased light and mental wellness. And yes, we reap numerous rewards when exposed to the light, but constant light can have its challenges.
If light is good for mental wellbeing, how do we reconcile an overabundance of light with the feeling of being stuck?
This feeling sometimes overwhelms me in the spring. I find myself expecting to feel great, and, while part of me does, another part of me feels trapped.
I love being among the trees, but in the spring, walking on the trails through the snow can be unpleasant, particularly in the afternoons when things have warmed up. The illusion of compact snow; the reality of a thin, weak crust. Every step is a kind of Russian roulette. Will I punch through the crispy crust? Or will I stay on top? Compounding the problem is the fact that the bottom layer is water. So, when you crash through the top, middle, and bottom layers, your shoes will be full of water. A soaker, the kids call it.
A few days ago, while out on my bike with Chilli, I noticed the sun shining through the trees in the most spectacular way. The light, the moss peeking through between melting piles of snow, the new growth on the spruce branches—I had to go there! A ditch full of snow was in the way, but, called by the light. I searched until I found a relatively dry area. I would walk there and keep my shoes from getting wet. Wrong. A soaker found me. And then another. Both my feet were sopping wet, sloshing around in my shoes.
I did manage to get to the trees. Soaked from the calves down but the result was worth it. Perhaps this is a metaphor for this season. The season where the light returns. Despite the longer days, we’re not quite able to enjoy them in their fullest yet. We can’t quite hike. We can’t yet canoe. Swimming is a no-go. It’s a bit like an arm extended, fingers reaching out, trying desperately to grab onto the summer days without luck.
Sometimes when I’m in the middle of a task – maybe it’s writing or filming or even just housework – I come up against that feeling of being stuck. Deep down I know that taking a step back is what is required. I need to put aside whatever I’m working on and acknowledge that the gratification of finishing a project or of making progress is not instant. Spring is a bit like that. It requires a willingness to settle into this limbo-like feeling. As I might resist, I need to acknowledge that it’s okay to feel a sense of discomfort and discontentment.
Thich Nhat Hahn writes, “Touch your suffering. Face it directly and your joy will become deeper.” The return of the light certainly isn’t a form of suffering, but aspects of it bring about emotions and feelings that are not in line with joy either. I suppose the lesson is that this season makes room for the joy summer brings. That perhaps, these feelings of discomfort and discontentment, allow for a deeper sense of comfort and contentment to come. So maybe instead of feeling frustrated or irritated by this current state of limbo, it should be celebrated as a temporary experience that ultimately allows for more.