Instead of turning on the lights, I often choose to find my way along in the natural darkness that gathers at the end of the day. I put my arms out in front of me and wiggle my fingers so if I misjudge the passageway and hit the wall, my loose, flexible fingers will save me from full-body impact, and I can gracefully adjust my course.
If I happen to be outside, in addition to putting my arms out, I access the maps and nerve endings stored in my feet, remembering fences, gates, high spots, low spots, and the long history of undulations in the dirt. It’s a rare night that falls dark enough to require more than that.
I imagine this practice will be helpful when my eyes fail or the grid goes down, and I like the challenge of malleable mindfulness.
I practice kindness the same way. When the dim gloom of malevolence, morons, or mean people descends on my psyche, I put my arms out and wiggle my fingers to reduce the chances of causing harm.
Once in a while my fingers run into God. Or at least I think it’s God because the encounter leaves me tingling and confused. From a logical distance, I know it’s not the whole God. I’m a blindfolded child touching the elephant’s leg thinking I now know the truth about elephants.
“I’m more like a cold snap than an elephant,” the Voice of God chimes in. “You can get frostbite playing that game.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But there are always dishes to wash, and the water’s warm. I usually recover nicely.”
“Why don’t you just turn on the lights and be done with it?” God asks.
I turn instinctively toward the Voice but see only an obscure reflection that could be anyone—even myself. “Isn’t that your job?” I ask the Haziness.
“No,” the Haziness says adamantly.
“Okay. My mistake.” I shrug, then add with what I hope is a healthy mix of dignity and contrition, “But I kind of like the dark sometimes. It softens the harsher realities.”
“True,” the Haziness says. “But you’ll be fine in the light. Let me know when you’re ready. I’ve got plenty of sunscreen and a massive umbrella.”
“I don’t need your sunscreen or umbrellas,” I scoff.
“Okay. My mistake,” the Haziness says. “What is it you need?”
Last night’s pots and pans are soaking in the sink. The question hangs in the air, unanswered. I suspect it will always hang in the air. But the soapy water is steamy and comforting.
Short visits with an honest God 