holy darkness
“This is the night when you can trust that, any direction you go, you will be walking toward the dawn.” — Jan Richardson
When I turned 30, I got restless. I remember pacing my apartment that winter day, unsure of where to direct my uncomfortable energy. I had given a eulogy for a friend the week before and, understandably, felt out of sorts. I’d also had a tremendous birthday party and was still buzzing from the excitement.
When I learned of a “women’s circle” in Greenwich Village, I was intrigued to attend. It piqued my curiosity and seemed like a good place to bring my restlessness. I don’t remember much about that evening except for a meditative song that was played there. The lyrics, melodically repeated, are “Returning to the Mother of us all.”
I bought myself the CD of that 52 minute song and played it during the times I felt most restless. It became like a lullaby that temporarily calmed me down. But it also left me with a deep longing that I couldn’t articulate or understand.
When summer arrived, I got invited to participate in an Inipi ceremony, a.k.a. “sweat lodge,” lead by a Lakota Elder. I road tripped with strangers from Brooklyn to rural Pennsylvania and walked right into the woods. Actually, I ran into the woods because I was a panicked New Yorker, afraid that I was late for the ceremony.
Arriving at the clearing, where Firekeepers tended a fire and the Lakota Elder gave instruction to participants, I was slapped with the sudden awareness of my frenetic energy. My loud, busy brain and persistent restlessness felt absurd and unnecessary in those woods but I had difficulty shaking them off.
After receiving instruction, setting intention, and writing prayers, I stripped down to my underpants and crawled into the igloo-shaped hut with the others. Nine of us women, including the Lakota Elder, sat on the ground in a circle around the sizzling hot stones. The Firekeepers reverently closed the little doorway to the hut and we were, together, enveloped by a total and complete darkness.
I felt so incredibly safe in there. My lullaby became a visceral experience as I returned to the Mother of us all. Far away from my harried daily life, I existed as only a body, with breath and a heartbeat, made of the Earth I was sitting on. Held by her holy darkness, I sweated out the age 30 restlessness with deep relief.
Two hours later, we crawled out of that nourishing womb, one by one, slippery and renewed. The Firekeepers gleefully shouted, “It’s a girl!” as each of us emerged into the light.
When winter approaches each year, I hear many folks complain about the early sundowns and the long nights. And, hey, I totally get it. Limited daylight is surreal and inconvenient in a society that demands year-round productivity.
But what if this prolonged darkness is a sacred place that we get to return to each year. What if this darkness is Mother Earth’s way of holding us and calming us, reminding us that we are part of her. What if we cannot know the gift of the dawn until we first know the gift of the dark?
Wishing you a nourishing Solstice night, dear readers.
This was resonate and beautiful. Thank you!
Thank you for this beautiful piece of writing and for all of the gifts you bring to the world - in light and in darkness. Much love you!