“To know the dark”

Our friend June made this lamp. We commissioned it for ourselves as a tenth wedding anniversary gift, nearly 35 years ago. It hangs above our dining table. This time of year in particular, I am grateful for its light. The world feels dark. Well, it is dark. The solstice occurs in 3 days but honestly in December it’s hard to even notice the return of the light because it’s so gradual. Some days I never turn off the kitchen light. In February, snowdrops and reticulate iris will begin to bloom in bowls by our front door and then I’ll know that we’ve made it through another winter.

I did some Christmas baking over the weekend, along with attending the memorial service for a friend who died too young. We learned (late) of two other deaths in the past few weeks. Last night, lying in bed, white linen curtains drawn, I thought about those that thrive in the dark. Owls, coyotes, the flying squirrels we used to see more often, gliding from the railings of our deck down the bank, mice we sometimes hear in the walls. When the cat goes out after his dinner, he lurks under the house, hunting, and when he comes in, his eyes are huge with the night’s mysteries.

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Tomorrow is John’s birthday. In the old days it was the beginning of a very festive season. Various parties, including one to watch the carol ships, dressed in lights, make their way around Pender Harbour, people on board singing, and we sang too, on the deck of Edith Iglauer’s house. We watched the boats, and sang, and then we went into her warm kitchen for prawns, oysters, various tarts and cakes. There was a fire burning, too many people in a small house, and it was wonderful. John’s birthday party was always lively too. One memorable year, we had too much snow for people to be able to navigate our long driveway winding its way up a hill to our house. They all parked down by the highway and walked up, carrying presents and overnight bags (because many of them came from Vancouver to celebrate and stay overnight). A knock on the door, and whomever it was would come in to join the others sitting by the woodstove. I remember so much laughter, great feasts that went on for hours. Too many of those old friends have died, a few have drifted away, and others no longer like to drive the dark highway in winter. (I understand this. I do. I’m almost never the driver at night so I can be casual about such things.) Last year young(er) friends came to share roast lamb and chocolate torte and when I wondered if they’d like to come again this year, they eagerly said, Yes! So today I’m making an Armenian orange and walnut cake, a boneless leg of lamb is thawing, to be stuffed tomorrow with pistachios, olives, and rosemary, and we’ll open a luscious wine to accompany the food. Overhead, spring daffodils and Siberian iris, thanks to June. Fairy lights are strung around all the windows and green boughs remind of us of better days ahead.

When I was lying in my warm bed last night, thinking about the dark, I promised myself that I will spend some time in it, without light. I’ll listen–for the skittering of feet, the sound of waterfalls high up the mountain to the east of our house, the rustle of wings as an owl settles in the big fir near the patio. …the dark, too, blooms and sings.

Note: the poem is Wendell Berry’s “To Know the Dark”.