My grandson has a bone to pick with the dark.
When it’s time for bed, his room must be lit up enough to rival the skyline of New York City.
Shadows have no welcome here.
“What if I have a nightmare?” he asks, wide-eyed and earnest, his six-year-old analogy for the unknown.
“What if you do?” I reply gently, letting the question hover like a firefly in the twilight.
“The light keeps me safe,” he insists, wrapping himself in the warm comfort of its glow.
And honestly, how do you argue with that?
Darkness as a Teacher
I try, though. I remind him of his first nine months of life, nestled in the nurturing darkness of the womb—a place of safety, care, and miraculous growth. For those precious months, the dark wasn’t something to fear; it was a cocoon, a sanctuary.
“Even after you were born,” I explain, “you didn’t mind the dark for years. You embraced it without hesitation. It’s only now, as you grow older, that you’re learning to fear it.”
I tell him my favorite saying: “The stars can’t shine without the dark.” And it’s true. Without the velvet canvas of night, the brilliance of the stars would go unnoticed. Without the shadowed earth, seeds couldn’t germinate, and the mighty oak couldn’t rise. Darkness is not an absence; it is a fertile ground, a necessary contrast, the yin to the yang.
I weave a tapestry of the dark for him, painting pictures of flying squirrels gliding silently between trees, masked bandit-raccoons on midnight escapades, and the gentle hoot of an owl marking its domain. The night is alive with mysteries and treasures—a world within a world, as rich and vibrant as the day but with its own rules and rhythms.
Darkness brings rest, renewal, and dreams. It’s where fireflies dance, where the quiet hum of crickets composes symphonies, and where secrets are held, waiting for those brave enough to seek them.
But I also acknowledge the stories we’ve inherited. A society that whispers, “Beware the dark. Shadows conceal evil. Darkness is where fear lives.” What a disservice we’ve done, equating nightfall with negativity, casting shadows as villains instead of companions.
Imagine who we might become if we leaned into the dark instead of retreating. If we walked into its embrace with the same ease as we stroll under the noonday sun.
Infinite Beings in Balance
We are not light beings, nor shadow beings. We are the whole, infinite wonders capable of thriving in both day and night. Like a sculptor admiring their masterpiece, we can marvel at the contrast—the highlights and the deep grooves—that give life its depth and texture.
So, if you, like my grandson, find yourself pulling away from the inky shadows, perhaps it’s time to reconsider what darkness truly offers.
Practices to Befriend the Dark
Here are some ways to embrace the beauty of darkness and make peace with its presence:
Stargaze in Silence: Spend a quiet night under the stars. Let the vastness of the night sky remind you of your place in something infinite and beautiful.
Explore Nightlife: Take a walk at night and listen for the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Notice how the world transforms after sundown.
Reframe the Shadows: Write down your fears about the dark. Then, beside each one, write something positive the dark offers—rest, renewal, mystery, or protection.
Meditate in Darkness: Sit in a dimly lit room and breathe deeply. Allow yourself to feel the calm of being enveloped, rather than exposed.
Dream Journaling: Before bed, set an intention to explore your dreams without fear. Write down what you remember each morning, finding patterns of growth and insight.
The Light Within
As I tuck my grandson into bed, he watches the shadows on the wall for a moment, their edges softened by his bedside lamp and various nightlights.
“I guess,” he begins, his voice small but determined, “maybe tonight I’ll try less light. Just a little less.”
I smile, knowing this is his way of testing the waters of bravery. “That’s a wonderful start,” I say, smoothing the blanket over him.
He nods, his eyes already drifting shut, I dim the bedside lamp’s light just enough to let the shadows reclaim a bit of the room.
As I close the door behind me, I glance back and see him, a little figure bathed in the quiet glow. The shadows play softly around him, not menacing, but protective, like a comforting embrace. And I think to myself: he’s starting to see it—the beauty and magic in the spaces we fear.
Darkness, after all, isn’t the absence of light. It’s the canvas upon which light can reveal its wonders.
💋Kristen
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