How I Made Friends With the Dark
The problem of light pollution
Fear of the Dark
Humans have a preternatural fear of the dark ingrained in our biology through evolution. When we cannot see into the wilderness, we are vulnerable to predators and tripping over cacti and therefore darkness should be countered with light. As a child, I was afraid of the dark. I woke up in the middle of the night and the thick blackness in my closet frightened me enough to yell for my mom. Sometimes still, I wake up from a nightmare and question the shadows in the dark, the darker parts of the dark.
This fear has seeped into the mythic imaginal realms as well where darkness is associated with deep psychological pain, such as in this William Styron quote: "For those who have dwelt in depression's dark wood, and known its inexplicable agony, their return from the abyss is not unlike the ascent of the poet, trudging upward and upward out of hell's black depths and at last emerging into what he saw as 'the shining world.’"
Styron, the literary canon, and most western religions associate darkness with evil, loneliness, depression, death, ignorance and agony. People often have a negative association with the dark, always trying to bring light into it. Light is associated with safety, goodness and spirituality (ie, enlightenment.) Darkness is the wicked stepchild that nobody wants to deal with. But darkness is actually a blessing, and I have grown to love the dark.
I used to be terrified of the forest at night. In the dark, my ears turned hypervigilant and tuned in like antennas to every breeze or creak of bough, every snapped branch or rustle of ground cover. My nerves tinged with fret and frayed along the edges. I listened inside my tent and never slept.
Perhaps that is why during one “dark” time in my life, when I was struggling with clarity, when the path ahead was shrouded in night and in desperation for some light, I decided to go on a wilderness solo fast—three days and three nights, alone and fasting in the woods. I wanted to do the thing that scared me most, to sleep outdoors alone at night. I guess I needed a breakthrough so bad that I had to force it to happen. Inevitably, facing a fear whether you fail or succeed, amounts to the disruption of old patterns in the psyche, and I needed it. Midlife and lost, I went to the wilderness.
Befriending the Dark
Beforehand in preparation, I considered my greatest fear out there and concluded that it was the primordial threat of predators in the night. I would be blind to whatever beasts might wander the woods in the dark, making myriad and taunting animal sounds. It meant not only that I wouldn’t get any sleep, but that I would be awake for hours, staring into the dark, awaiting death by carnivore. At the start of my solo excursion, while out looking for a campsite, someone spotted a cougar in the area. Already, my fears were being tested.
The first night when I went to bed, I was so happy that the forest was entirely quiet and still. Only the stars were flickering with motion. Even the air held its breath for me. I relaxed into the cocoon of my sleeping bag and fell asleep. I don't know what time it was when I was awoken by the sound of a giant boulder rolling down the mountainside that I was camping at the foot of, and then along the wash where I pitched my tent. I leapt from my tent to evacuate the boulder’s path as quickly as possible before it squashed me.
By the time I was out and under the night sky, the boulder had seized its momentum and landed somewhere above me on the slope. I waited. I could see nothing. Every cell in my body was on high alert, ready to act. Silence. Stillness. I sighed with relief. I would not be pummeled. I crawled back into my shelter. But then a new sound, the cry of a haunted woman in the distance, crying in pain. I wondered if she had been hit by the boulder or attacked by the cougar. I peered through the mesh window. I could see nothing. What could I do to save her? I was blind, helpless, terrified.
Then I heard another woman’s voice and saw a headlamp shining far away. It was my buddy. On the wilderness solo, we were assigned a buddy, the person camping closest, usually within 1/4 mile, who we would never see but could keep tabs on each other with intentionally laid stones at a nearby point between us. Mine was high up on a ridge and so I could hear her voice echo in the valley as she sing-songed, “Hey there! Hey there!” Unsure of what was happening, I went against the protocol of privacy and responded in kind, yelling out with a quivering voice into the night.
Later, I would learn that the sounds of the boulder and the woman crying in pain were a pack of elk stampeding and bugling. They were rutting earlier in the season than usual. The next night, a pack of coyotes screeched and growled nearby unlike any noise I'd heard coyotes make before. They sounded like violent feral dogs instead of their usual joyful yelps. Later, I would learn that it is the sound they make over a fresh kill.
Only on the third night did the animals of the world stay away and let me rest. I was exhausted. I had faced the worst of it, and I was prepared for anything by that point. The darkness couldn’t surprise me, or so I thought. I awoke in the middle of the night to pee and stumbled wearily out of my tent. To my surprise, the forest wasn't dark at all. The full moon shone down, illuminating the world in her silver beaming smile. The only thing scary about the dark was what I imagined to be in it.
The Problem of Light Pollution
Indian mystic Osho said, “Darkness is beautiful. It has tremendous depth, silence, infinity. Light comes and goes; darkness always remains, it is more eternal than light. For light you need some fuel; for darkness no fuel is needed - it is simply there.”
Not only is darkness deep, eternal and infinitely beautiful, but darkness is essential to our well-being. We need darkness to regulate our circadian rhythms and melatonin, so we can sleep, rejuvenate and improve our physical and mental health. Due to the widespread use of artificial light—whether candles, flashlights, neon signs, nightlights or phones—most people rarely experience true darkness. Excess light exposure in humans has been linked to depression, hormonal imbalances and in extreme cases like nightshift workers, cancer.
The natural rhythms of light and dark are encoded in the DNA of all plants and animals via the circadian rhythm and are an ancient and essential feature of life on Earth. The circadian clock allows organisms to anticipate daily changes in light and temperature, adjust their physiology and behavior, and maintain internal timing, enabling them to optimize their survival and reproduction. Light pollution is an environmental threat to plants and animals around the world. Artificial light interferes with the safe migration of birds, with sea turtle hatchlings finding their way to the sea, with prey escaping their predators, and with mating habits of amphibians. All these examples affect the greater food chain and the balance of the ecosystems.
Visitors to New Mexico often ask me where to go to see “Dark Skies” and I always halt internally to process this information, acknowledging that places are designated as such because that is not the norm. I tell them to drive 10 minutes in any direction out of town.
A dark sky designation is a certification from DarkSky International given to places that are committed to preserving the night sky and reducing light pollution. These designations serve to promote eco- and astro-tourism, protect nocturnal habitats, inspire public enjoyment of the night sky, and identify dark skies as a valuable resource. If you are interested in learning how to reduce your contribution to light pollution, visit www.darksky.org.
My writing student, Pamela, who lives in a city said she is “lonely for dark” and this idea had never occurred to me. I am entirely spoiled. I live in a sparsely populated off-grid community and so there are even less lights than in your average rural neighborhood. Every night when I walk outside, as long as the clouds are not in the way, I can see the Milky Way, snaking its fuzzy boa across the nightscape. When I exit my car on route to my front door, I always pause in awe at the beauty of the night sky filled with constellations like holes poked in a backlit blackboard. I never rush to turn on the light. My hackles don’t heighten in high alert awaiting predatory attacks. Instead, I breathe deep the dark into my bones and let my soul absorb its wisdom.
You may also be interested in…
Meeting Our Edges
Nature can be scary and there is a healthy amount of fear to be had of wild animals, lightening storms or avalanches. Knowledge, familiarity and preparedness are necessary when heading into the wilderness. However, in our modern world, having adapted so much to spending most of the time indoors, we have lost our innate intimacy with the natural world. This lack of relationship increases our anxiety around being in the wild, making the natural world feel scarier than it needs to be, and further disconnecting us.
Dig Deep
Our first ceremony was a private rehearsal for the performance and consisted of just the five women that would be digging. We met on public lands near Santa Fe, circling up, our knees in dirt, we smudged, we prayed, and then we used our bare hands to claw away at the earth, throwing the sand back behind us faster and faster, clawing and tossing, clawing and tossing in the rhythmic patterns inherent to digging. Then the wailing began, raging cries, primordial yells as we tore at the topsoil and threw the dirt to the air, vehemently and more vehemently, a rage brewing in our collective song.
I loved reading about your wilderness fast with the boulder, the cougar, the elk, the feasting coyotes. I would have had a heart attack.
Also love the beautiful Milky Way description. I, too, like Pamela am lonely for the dark. I could drive out a ways and find it but it’s still cold here and my heater is broken in the van.
Let’s go for a night hike when I’m back in town. 🌚