Here at The Muddy Drumstick, the affectionate name of our hobby farm, we are doing the chores in the dark these days. This means donning a warm coat, tall boots, and a headlamp over a knit cap and then winding and wandering out to the barn. The headlamp, while useful, as it illuminates the path, does not light up anything else.
In the dark, only what is right in front can be seen. I am oblivious to whatever dangers exist outside of the light I have. This is a grace only received later in life and after many such wanderings.
This trek each winter morning and night is a visceral reminder that the light I have is enough. It reminds me that growing trust requires quiet, consistent cultivation.
Once to the barn, the complaints of the goats, Sally and Abby, and the warm whinny of our horse, Pepper, welcome me. In the barn hardwired electricity provides enough light to offer a few flakes of hay and a scoop of food to the barn cat, whose name is Lamp.
Pulling up a paint can to sit on, I turn off the lights and rest near to the animals while they eat and rub their warm bodies against mine as tokens of gratitude. Pepper’s huge frame and sweet, moist breath remind me that I’m not alone, even as the light fades and the dark envelops us. Lamp’s purr is an auditory cue that shalom has settled in. Indeed, all can be right in the world, even when sitting in the dark.
I am reminded that Advent is a season of increasing darkness. Up until the Winter Solstice on December 22 our natural light will continue to lessen.
The dark is gift to us. One that enlivens and awakens senses that have atrophied from lack of use. The dark heightens our awareness of what we could not, would not see in a barn or on a trail or in our lives. In the dark our vulnerabilities move to consciousness. Stillness and silence come naturally in the dark. Mystery fills the air.
In Exodus 20, just after Moses received the 10 Commandments and the people witness God’s power and splendor, there is darkness. The people come face to face with their vulnerabilities and the people distance themselves from the dark. Consequently, when they turn from the dark, they distance themselves from God. But Moses “drew near to the thick darkness where God was.” (Ex. 20:21)
During this season of Advent, what would it look like for you to draw near to the thick darkness where God is? What would it look like create space for your vulnerabilities to emerge?
Are there areas of trust that could be quietly cultivated through engagement with the dark? Enter into a conversation with God around what stirs in you.
Honestly, the deep work in the dark can’t be done from our armchair, inside our houses, under our blankets. We can’t think our way into the deeper life.
Is there a night this week, when you can bundle up and wander outside to breathe in the gifts of the dark?
Look up! What do the stars teach you about dark, about God, about yourself?