She stares at the wall, searching for a window or door. A way through, a way beyond, what's right before her eyes. It's been like this, for so long - seeing what's immediate and pressing - that her vision field seems to have shrunken. How far ahead, she wonders, do I dare to strain these eyes to see? For seeing is an act of daring. An act of faith, of surrender to hope, of possibility for more than this, whatever this is.
And there are no horizons here, beckoning far in the distance, where earth huddles up against heaven. Not yet.
There is darkness. And there are walls that do not move, blocking her view.
But there is, sometimes, a crack in the ceiling through which she can see the sky. How it can bleed color at the end of a day, or how it can seem like a bottle of black ink has spilled over and clouded the sun. How it unrolls from one end to the other, as if there were an end, her eyes limited by how far they can see in any one direction.
She has heard too many voices instruct her - and others - to fight their darkness. To not yield to it. Those voices once sounded wise, but now they sound mostly afraid. Afraid of being human. Perhaps, she thinks, the bravest thing is simply to fall into it and trust she is not alone. Perhaps, she thinks, she was never called upon to rise above her humanity, for in doing so, she has failed to see the very human God in the form of Jesus, this man of sorrows acquainted with grief, who passed into the darkness of death and did not immediately overcome it. For awhile, and maybe this felt like an eternity to the eternal God with human DNA, there was no light or glory to be seen in his surrender. No simple anecdote to extract, nothing to bolster the faith or his mission.
And it didn't end there in darkness.
Because of that, she knows, somehow, even if that knowing has soft, undefined edges like the sky itself, that the darkness will not be her end, either. Indeed, it cannot even swallow her the way it did him, because of him.
It just might take the light awhile to spread through the vast, vast skies and filter through the crack in the ceiling, where maybe, then, she will see a door.
Or maybe he is her door, and because she cannot see through him yet, there is the appearance of darkness.
Only time will tell. But she is not afraid of the darkness.
* * * * *
* It's been a hard week on my heart, friends - in a hard season that seems not to have an end. It's easier, somehow, to put it into words abstractly, and right now, that seems to be all that's needed. It's not circumstances or any particular state of being I want to draw attention to, as much as this ongoing challenge to set before myself and readers the ups and downs of a story-in-process. The invitation for all of us to set aside pretense and be real, resisting the urge to wrap things up neatly. I'm beginning to wonder if that's not one of friendship's greatest gifts.
* Also, the darkness I am referring to is in no way implying that all darknesses are to be surrendered to. Obviously, I do not wish to oversimplify the darkness for those who, in this state of despair, end their lives or live in self-destruction or despair. I only wish to push back on the idea that the darkness that comes and goes in our experience of being human is to be feared or denied.
This is the response I wish I'd had to my own darkness, friend. Instead I sit around waiting for the light to come again. But your words make me brave enough to sit and let the dark do its work. I even wondered last night if maybe the blackness is a cue to stop trying to see and instead hear and smell and taste and touch. In other words, to stop going to my default self-rescue techniques (like trying to see my way out of a situation) and just surrender. I'm tagging this post to the end of my own because it's so, so important. I find myself wishing we could sit together in the darkness, but I know it doesn't really work that way. We each have to sit in our own. But please know, my beautiful friend, that even as you sit in your cell and I sit in mind, I can hear your spirit singing from its depths. It is a song of ache, but of hope. And I pray, just maybe, you can hear me singing, too. Love you!
ReplyDeleteI wrote about that some last year, Beth, about feeling like maybe the darkness I was in was teaching me (forcing me) to learn to use all of my other senses. I was actually thinking about how trainers teach dogs to hunt at night by leaving scent trails. Anyway, here's a link to one poem I wrote about it: http://afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com/2014/01/seeing-in-dark.html
DeleteYou and Amber both might appreciate reading Gerald May's book, "The Dark Night of the Soul" it's very readable and made a lot of sense to me or also "The Wisdom Way of Knowing" by Cynthia Bourgeault. Both available on Amazon.
That poem is all kinds of Yes and Amen in my spirit, Kelly. Thank you for linking it here. And my heart stopped (but was not really surprised) by the Isaiah verse that inspired it because it has always been one of my life verses, too. And the timing of it come back to me at this time in this way is grace like no other. (p.s. I keep thinking of Parker's phrase of going "all the way down" from Let Your Life Speak... I do, so very much, want to make sure I do not surface too soon.)
DeleteHow sweet it is, Beth, to have a friend who, though cannot sit in the same room, in the same darkness, can hear me from the other room - and I can hear you, too, in yours. We are not that far, it seems, from each other, regardless of this physical distance. And that is something beautiful.
DeleteKelly, thank you for these book recommendations... I will check them out. They sound so timely for this season.
DeleteOh Amber, this is more true than most would like to believe, for it has only been in going INTO the "darkness" that I have experienced healing in some of the deepest places. For there I find the truth and perspective. I do think it is important not to go there alone. Go there with a counselor/wise Godly friend. (reference the weekend I told you about in September as I went into the darkness of childhood grief)
ReplyDeleteJerry Sittser wrote a book "A Grace Disguised. How the Soul Grows through Loss". In it he talks about how he tried to run from the dark (when his wife, his mother and his daughter were killed in a drunk driving accident, leaving him to raise three children.) and the darkness threatened to overtake him. someone told him you can only find the light not by running from the darkness, but through the darkness to the light.
I think you are spot on here.
I wish you still lived in Portland, since I am going to be there a week in Dec. with my family. Maybe next time we'll stay longer and go visit some friends in Seattle which would at this point include you!
"Running through the darkness to the light." Yes. Thank you, Carol. Whenever you write, I feel we are having a conversation, and I wish it weren't so short. You know these things so well - your presence and life experiences speak richness into my life. I wish to meet you someday - if you do come to Seattle, I would feel utterly privileged to be included among your visitors :-)
DeleteI don't even think I have words to reply to this. If we were together I think I would just sit and listen and nod silently, "Yeah, it is as you say it is. Every bit of it." You are doing so well, Amber in embracing your struggle. I can't imagine it feels good (it never has for me), but it WILL pass and you will find yourself in a new place of freedom that you never even knew was possible. You might appreciate the books I mentioned in my reply to Beth, although I know sometimes in the darkness it is difficult to read. And, I appreciate the abstractness of your words - they suit the content you're writing about, I think that's why I sometimes turn to poetry - how to put into words the deep mysteries?
ReplyDeleteHow much I have wished lately to sit with you, Kelly. Your willingness to face your own darkness, to embrace your struggles, to sit and let your life speak, has spoken courage and confidence to me. Your poetry always moves me deeply. It is, most of the time, why I turn to poetry - as you said - "how to put into words the deep mysteries?" Yes. I'm nodding here, too.
DeleteAmber,
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry it has been a hard week. Thank you for sharing so honestly about just hard life can be sometimes....And I think you're brave :)
I so appreciate you saying this: "Because of that, she knows, somehow, even if that knowing has soft, undefined edges like the sky itself, that the darkness will not be her end, either. Indeed, it cannot even swallow her the way it did him, because of him." and also your little caveat at the end.
That "soft knowing" sounds like trusting God with where you are right now...((hugs))
Oh, Dolly. I'm trying to trust him where I am right now. It's a learning curve, this soft knowing, but it also feels like an expansion of trust. I am learning, too, that each of our paths to healing and wholeness and trust can look so different. That, for some, going into the darkness in this way may not be the path, and that's ok. But learning to accept our own paths and walk them bravely, without judgment, this is the challenge. Thank you for the hugs :-)
DeleteYour honest sharing leaves me speechless. Love you so much.
ReplyDeleteI love you, too, Mama.
DeleteI loved your words today. I don't even know what to say except that the resonated within me. I have my own dark places and dark times. Sometimes, we have to find the light within instead of without. Thank you so much for this.
ReplyDeleteYes, "the light within." The light within, even when what is without is dark. This is good, Patricia. And I think, if I might add, to learn to live with both light and dark, don't you think? For it seems rare to have one without the other. I'm so glad to see you here, friend.
DeleteYes, I get this, Amber. We shouldn't deny the darkness; it's real. It's normal. It doesn't have to terrify us because it won't be permanent.
ReplyDeleteAnd I'm thankful that the light is also real, however tiny the crack. Thanks for sharing this; beautiful.
Thankful for the very real light, too, Lisa. And for your presence here.
DeleteI love you, friend, all the more for saying these things. More and more lately it grates on me, the way we push against these types of darkness instead of peering deep into them, leaning into them because *they are where He waits to encounter us.* I've said it before I think, but I can't not say it again after reading your heart here - I want to be across the table from you in a coffee shop. For like, hours. Jesus, could you please make that happen someday? <3 love you, heart sister.
ReplyDeleteOh yes, Jesus, yes, please...
DeleteI'd love that, Dana.
I'm trying, hoping, praying, to get to Jumping Tandem next May - any chance you might be considering that, too? There are at least a handful of sisters like you I would *love* so much to sit across from.
And thank you, for loving me here.
YES, I am looking toward Jumping Tandem. I was SO hoping you'd be thinking in that direction too...
ReplyDelete