• advent journal: how dark is it?

    by  • December 1, 2015 • advent journal, community, depression, durham, friends, hope • 8 Comments

    Perhaps it was the mention of constellations in the quote from Sarah Lewis last night, and the mention of W. S, Merwin’s poem that got me thinking about the dark, which features prominently in both. Perhaps it was a friend who wrote, “I have been to the heart of darkness alitdand found it groundless.” Whatever it was set me thinking again about darkness and stars and poems, all of which have circled around and through each other for centuries.

    Darkness is an interesting word. We use it to describe several different things that carry some sense of mystery and unknowing, and often some sense of pain. We are scared of the dark. We get lost in the dark. Darkness is a metaphor for depression, for sin, for the undiscovered, for the hidden, for the mysterious. We listen to the dark. We wait until dark. I went back through old notes and bookmarks to find some of my favorite quotes and poems about darkness. Here is a small sampling.

    I have been one acquainted with the night.
    I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
    I have outwalked the furthest city light.

    I have looked down the saddest city lane.
    I have passed by the watchman on his beat
    And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

    I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
    When far away an interrupted cry
    Came over houses from another street,

    But not to call me back or say good-bye;
    And further still at an unearthly height,
    One luminary clock against the sky

    Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
    I have been one acquainted with the night.”
    Robert Frost, West-Running Brook

    You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it. ― Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk

    “Once upon a time,” he said out loud to the darkness. He said these words because they were the best, the most powerful words that he knew and just the saying of them comforted him.” ― Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux

    My favorite, however, is the lyric to Guy Clark’s song entitled, “The Dark.”

    in the dark you can sometimes hear your own heart beat
    or the heart of the one next to you
    the house settles down after holding itself up all day
    shoulder slumps, gives a big sigh
    you hear no one’s foot fall in the hall
    that drip in the kitchen sink marking time
    june bug on the window screen can’t get in but he keeps on trying
    one way or another we’re all in the dark

    fireflies, sparks, lightning, stars
    campfires, the moon, headlights on cars
    the Northern Lights and The Milky Way
    you can’t see that stuff in the day
    when the earth turns its back on the sun
    the stars come out and the planets start to run around
    now they call that day is done
    but really it’s just getting started
    some folks take comfort in that

    and how dark is it
    it’s too dark for goblins
    and how dark is it
    it’s so dark you can smell the moon
    how dark is it
    it’s so dark the wind gets lost
    how dark is it
    it’s so dark the sky’s on fire
    how dark is it
    it’s so dark you can see Fort Worth from here

    I love the images in the song about the house that has held itself up all day and that one way or another we’re all in the dark, but I think the tune hung with me today because it asks another question: how dark is it?

    The sun was up for less than nine and a half hours here in the Shoreline, as this region is called, and it was cloudy and rainy to boot. The days will continue to shrink for another three weeks. The darkness is not yet at high tide. I got up in the dark and rode the train home in the dark—at 4:30. Though I quickly find the romance of now being able to stand in our backyard and see a sky full of stars at night, thanks to the dark, I also know its weight and seemingly unending depth when the darkness stands for depression. I. too, have been one acquainted with the night. And on this night, I found a Mary Oliver poem in the dark that was new to me:

    The Uses of Sorrow
    (In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

    Someone I loved once gave me
    a box full of darkness.

    It took me years to understand

    that this, too, was a gift.

    The last line of the song unwraps a gift for me: it’s so dark you can see Fort Worth from here. When I look backwards through my life, I can see the seedlings of my depression beginning to grow when I lived there. I didn’t know what it was then. I recognize it now, the way you see foreshadowing in a novel you’re reading for the second or third time. Even so, my memories of Fort Worth are infused with the joy that came from those days as Youth Minister at University Baptist Church, for the young people who taught me how to be a part of a group, and we all learned how to love one another.

    Tonight, it’s also dark enough to see Charlestown and Winchester and Marshfield, too; and it’s dark enough to see Durham as well. How dark is it? It’s dark enough to be reminded of the love of friends scattered across the country—even the world, of the hope that continues to catch me by surprise, of the gifts of grief and gratitude and grace.

    How dark is it? Dark enough to be thankful.



    Blogging since December 2005


    8 Responses to advent journal: how dark is it?

    1. December 1, 2015 at 10:13 pm

      Dark enough to bed thankful . . . powerful.

    2. December 1, 2015 at 10:22 pm

      “be” thankful – oops, typo!

      • Maggie
        December 2, 2015 at 7:10 am

        Nice collage of images. Thank you, Milton

    3. Claud
      December 2, 2015 at 7:44 am

      Hi you! One of my favs is something like, “only in the dark is it bright enough to see the stars.” Durham is smiling back at you today.

    4. December 2, 2015 at 9:12 am

      “It’s gettin’ dark, too dark to see…” As long as you can feel, hear, touch, and taste… and remember. And love. Then life goes on.

      “At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”
      — Albert Schweitzer

    5. December 2, 2015 at 2:12 pm

      Some mornings, I pull my blanket over my head – same as I did when a child – to hold the darkness close for just a bit longer. Thank you for the imagery.

    6. Marilyn Tanner
      December 2, 2015 at 3:05 pm

      Thank you for this wonderful article. You’ve reminded me of how I like evening walks in the Winter. Getting up and out of the warm house with my two dogs can be the hard part, but once I am out it is enjoyable to look at the best show of stars for all the year, and smell the wood burning in fireplaces. I really like Guy Clark’s song and reading the lyrics prior was meaningful.

    7. December 8, 2015 at 3:44 pm

      Yeah, Durham is certainly looking afar toward the light where you are in Guilford. It’s darker in Durham without you!

    Leave a Reply