Darkness – Short visits with an honest God

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.

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For the past two nights, I’ve woken in the unknowable blackness of far past midnight and wrestled with the biochemical truths of the human propensity for bleakness. Who knows why these useless awakenings occur? True, I might be a little more stressed than usual. For the holidays, I’d planned on spending more time hanging around in the spiritual ozone, letting God know my soul was open for business, but instead, I bought a condo. An old one. December is an excellent time to do real estate and pull up disgusting carpet, especially in the higher elevations of the northern hemisphere, where ice and snow add to the romance of trips across town.

“Smart ass,” God says, at my elbow. “Trying to write fancy is no substitute for confession or compassion. And it is certainly no excuse for jilting me.”

“You’re nuts,” I say back, kind of glad God has shown up, if only for an argument. “This isn’t fancy writing, I’m not avoiding confession or compassion, and you are impossible to jilt anyway.”

God waits, patient and large. I wait, less patient, asserting my own puny largeness as best I can. We sit; me, trying to recover from a bad night’s sleep; God, well, who knows what she’s up to? She wraps herself in shadow and begins growing darker and darker. For a while, I watch the disappearing act, detached and calm, even though I realize a black hole is opening up in my living room—the gravitational pull is bending the light into itself and I am dissipating into my imperfections. The only source of light comes from faces around me, lit up with hatred. They glow from the heat of fear, greed, and a steely will to survive at all costs.

“Hold them,” God says, as she offers me a set of icy black hands. “Be gentle,” she adds. I cradle the first vicious face in my beautiful hands, wishing someone could see how incredibly compassionate I was being. The face spits at me. Embers of spit melt holes in whatever it is I am. I hold on, but eventually, my substance goes up in flames. I gag from the smell of singed flesh and the oily residue of false pride.

“That worked out well,” I gasp, as God reconstitutes my being.

“As well as can be expected,” God says. “Would you like to rest?”

I nod and surrender–weak, grateful, and fully known. God shakes the sky free of stars and I crawl down into the sweet, healing darkness where the fires of fear have all gone out, the glare of hatred has no reflecting surface, and fetid wounds inflicted by too much artificial light will be disinfected and stitched shut. This is the place warriors become lovers, where the cool, black hands of God hold the flushed face of the universe until everything dies peacefully into itself.

In my dream, I am young again. Peter, Paul, and Mary are singing. And I want to believe them. We all want to believe them.

Tag: Darkness

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