Weaving Light & Darkness—A Mid-winter’s Night Reflection

           We decorated our tree on December 13.  The next day was New Moon, so metaphysically speaking, it was not an optimum time.  And I had been feeling grumpy and yucky most of the day, due to a recurrence of bronchitis.  But Mark got the tree mounted in its stand and into the house before dark, and after dinner we adorned it with lights and all our favorite ornaments. 

The next morning, when I looked at the tree, it seemed all wrong.  There were many dark places where there were no ornaments or lights.  More lights were needed, I decided, and also more ornaments to reflect the lights.  So I added more ornaments, moved around some of the one’s already in place, and added another string of lights.

Still the tree seemed somehow off to me—I tweaked the position of a few more ornaments and decided to walk away for a bit.  I’m not normally an OCD tree decorator—I like a certain amount of randomness in my visual fields—it brings its own beauty.  So I sat back and tried to figure out what was behind this behavior.

After quiet reflection, I realized that what was bothering me was the balance of light and darkness in the tree.  These days, holiday trees, especially in public places, are always ablaze with light—no dark pockets tucked away near the trunk or in patches of especially thick branches.  This time of year, our souls yearn for light.  This seems especially true here in southern Maine this year, where the days have been gray, foggy, misty and cloudy, with no snow on the ground to reflect whatever ambient light is available. 

Our tree, however, seemed filled with dark places—like swirls of dark matter winding through the universe—places where there are no lights or ornaments or anything but the mysterious depths of tree.  Part of me wanted to illuminate all those spots—to fill them with a blaze of light, and yet somehow, that felt wrong too.  Light is only brilliant in contrast to darkness.

My life is mostly lived seeking the appropriate balance between light and dark.  I revel in the months when the sun is high and strong, and yet always seek shady places to be outside in the summer—tempering the strength of the light with a modicum of darkness.  As the dark winter months approach and the sun is low and feeble, my outdoor time is spent seeking as much direct sun time as possible.

This cycle and seeking of balance seems to play out in my emotional/spiritual life as well.  Light is plentiful in the summer—the time of growth and fruiting—yet for me, summer is associated with the beginning of a series of personal sorrows which layer an element of darkness under the power and passion of full summer.  Darkness is plentiful in winter—short days and dim light make me infinitely more sensitive to sources of light—holiday lights and moon and star light—all crisply vibrating in the cold winter air—and the soul illumination emerging through my dark-time my spiritual work.

I look at the tree again and instead of focusing on my dissatisfaction I try to see the tree with new eyes.  Yes—there are dark spaces.  And there are spaces filled with light.  The contrast is actually rather appealing.  Ribbons of light wind across the darkness providing visual paths for the seer to follow, and pools of darkness provide places for the eye to rest.  Light and dark—balanced and present.  Truth be told, I wouldn’t like a world filled with only light, or only dark.  

Moon Child Blessings

I open the front door and step into the crisp, moist air of a late November night in Maine.  Nike, my toy poodle, scampers down the stairs and shuffles around, looking for the perfect spot for her nightly ritual.  I hear her but pay no attention for I am riveted by the Moon.

     Normally the Moon is not visible from this position on my land, as the huge oak tree on the east side of the house fills the horizon.  But this time of year, the oak is bare and the Moon in all her beauty is now ascending, silhouetting the branches as she rises.  The mist creates a halo around the Moon, fracturing the light as it spreads outward.  I stand, entranced, oblivious to the increasing chill and damp, for I am communing with the Divine.

     I’ve always had an affinity for the Moon.  A Cancer by birth, and thus a Moon Child, some of my earliest memories are of watching the Moon rise out my bedroom window.  When I was five, my parents moved to a house on a street with an east-west orientation.  I can remember standing in the street, watching the Equinox Moon rise at the horizon.  It seemed to fill the street—impossibly big and impossibly beautiful.  Although I appreciated the drama of the Moon landing in 1969, I was really glad that the grandiose plans of establishing bases and colonies on the surface of the Moon never came to pass.  It seemed, somehow, sacrilegious.

     Nike trots upstairs and I let her into the house.  I remain outside, focusing on the Moon—and the mist that surrounds her—and the wispy white smoke created when I exhale into the cold damp air.  The mist around the Moon is made of the same stuff as the mist I exhale—air saturated with water droplets—coming in contact with much colder temperatures.  I feel intensely connected to the Moon at this moment.  I feel her brilliant white light shimmering through the mist—shining on me as a visible blessing—shining on all things around me—the trees and the rocks and the land and the creatures—all are blessed by the Moonlight.

     The Moon played a very special role in the life I created with my first husband and my daughter.  We used to stand on the porch of our New Orleans home and howl at the full Moon each month.  When my daughter became old enough to want to go away to summer camp, yet still young enough to miss her parents, she and I used the Moon as a tool of connection.  I told her that any time she saw the Moon she should know that I was sending her love through the Moon, and she could send love back to me the same way.  It is a tool we use to this day.

     I think of this as the planet rotates and the Moon rises a little more.  It is clear of the oak now, smaller and more distant as she climbs.  Perhaps, I think, the Moon can be a tool for sending something on a broader scale than to just my daughter.  Perhaps it can be a tool for sending blessings throughout the universe.    

      

   To bless is to awaken—to become aware of the presence of Spirit all around you—to acknowledge the grand flow of Beingness that surrounds and supports us in what we sense and what we experience—the primal vital life force.  David Spangler, American spiritual philosopher, writes that a blessing is “a natural expression of the fiery love and inclusiveness of our inner spirit.” Theologian Matthew Fox describes blessing as the theological word for the goodness “inherent in the beauty, wisdom and wonder of creation.”

     When I look at the Moon I feel blessed—a deep sense of contentment and connection.  Moon-watching promotes a further awakening in me—a deeper awareness of the presence of Spirit all around me—a presence I acknowledge with respectful gratitude.  When I look at the Moon I am aware of a beauty and goodness that both humbles and uplifts my soul. 

I stand quietly and let Moon blessings pour over me.  My heart opens and the love and inclusiveness of my inner spirit flows upward on the paths of light created by the Moon.  I send my energy to merge with that of the Moon, welcoming the power of the Moon to amplify the blessings I wish to spread around the world.  Blessings, blessings, blessings to all things covering the surface of this beloved planet.