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.