As the days get shorter, like the birds, I prepare for the great southern migration. It’s my annual ritual, the trek to my desert sanctuary. My wanderlust takes on a purpose. I walk around in a fog this time of year. I’m not the only one. The symbolism of this Bible quote seems especially relevant lately, but it is more of a hope than a reality right now. Can we anticipate the season of Advent as a metaphor for hope? Will people see a great light? Or will we continue to live in darkness as a nation, as a global community?

Things are wrapping up for me. My writing class is over for the semester, so I’ll have to exhume the blog. The Cannon Beach Chorus has only a few more rehearsals before we perform our winter concert. It’s been a year of many losses. I’m ready for the return of the light, Here’s something I wrote a few winters ago:

Darkness has always filled me with dread. It’s usually cold. It’s lonely. It’s quiet. I am just waiting for it to end, for the dawn to break. Every night of insomnia is annoying, sometimes anxiety producing. I worry about things that, in the light of day, seem ridiculous. I’ve often just woken up from a strange dream or nightmare and my fugue state is disorienting.

In the fall, as the light diminishes, I become depressed. With the lengthening shadows come the demons. I lack confidence. The same glass of water becomes half empty. I become an introvert. Everyone irritates me. I avoid people and resent having to pretend I really care about them. Gratefully, retirement and the pandemic have brought a reprieve, as they gave me an excuse to stay underground and hibernate.

But darkness is also about contemplation, renewal and personal growth. I can lay fallow. I don’t have to do yard work. I don’t have to talk to a soul. I don’t have to get dressed. I can stay in my nightgown. I don’t have to consider anyone’s needs but my own. I can read a book. I can do jigsaw puzzles without feeling guilty. I don’t have to work or even balance my checking account. Outside the night animals lurk. Inside, my cats are quietly purring on my bed. They are on to something.

The earth lays in stillness half of the day. There’s a reason for this. Half the world is sleeping, resting, quietly refreshing itself. The human body’s hormonal system knows this. That’s when we grow. It’s also when we are most likely to die. There’s a spiritual awareness that comes with darkness. It’s why monks and nuns get up to pray before dawn. We can really hear God during those dark hours. We can be mindful in a way that the light does not allow.

Without darkness we couldn’t see the Milky Way, or the Northern Lights or the Southern Cross. In the silence of night, I am stripped to the bone; there is no self-deception. But when the dawn finally comes, there is cause for rejoicing. The pagans had the right idea in celebrating the return of the light. Because it is only after a period of darkness that we fully appreciate what we have been missing. That gratitude brings with it the promise of another day.