I held the young girl's hand as I led her up the bank to the barn. “In this world, there is warm dark and cold dark,” I opined. “I want you to experience warm dark, so you know what it feels like. “
What an important lesson for anyone—that dark can be warm or cold—and to be willing to accept and find comfort in warm dark. I had just experienced such darkness strongly. Earlier in my life, I had seen stars shining in a deep sky and felt awe. I had walked in woods so dark I could not see my hand in front of my face. I felt the path of packed earth with my feet. I sensed a large animal—was it a deer—cross the path in front of me. I felt mystery and terror as I walked to my cabin.
On this night, however, I entered warm dark space unexpectedly. A father had driven nearly two hours from northern Virginia to bring his two children, a son of seven and and a daughter of five, to the farm for a puppet show. So much about the evening had been engaging. The puppeteers performed in the barn. They sang beautifully as they told their tale with puppets made of wool, wood and silk. We had savored a community potluck, a fire circle and community singing as children roasted marshmallows.
As the flames from the fire mellowed, the father sat, his two young children stretched on a bench on either side of him, their heads in his lap. He lingered: he wanted his children to see the stars. We could barely discern the Milky Way through the soft haze of the unseasonably warm night. I offered to lead the girl to the top of the garden, away from the fire, where the stars would be more visible. Father and son came too. “If you lie down on the grass, you can see the stars better,” I suggested.
“Ticks,” the father responded, “ I worry about ticks.” His was an understandable concern: tick-born Lyme disease was epidemic in our area. I remembered how I lay down on top of the picnic table to view the night sky after reading Skye Taylor's book, A Monk in the Beehive. She had shared the importance of filling our souls with star-gazing.
I led them down to the picnic tables near the barn. The girl climbed onto the table, lay down and looked skyward. I went to the barn to turn off its light. I had planned to step in quickly, turn off the light and return to the family, but I felt drawn into the space. What made it so warm? The barn had been built by hand to shelter cows and to hold summer's hay through the long winter. Its chestnut beams and hemlock siding lent a timbre of aged wood. Slender slats between the siding boards let in just a little bit of air, a little bit of light. The space held the fragrance of freshly-baled hay; it held sound and air, but not tightly; it was a breathing, lively space. On this windless night, that breath was long and gentle.
I went to the family and led them to the barn. When we got to the barn door; the young girl hesitated. She was scared she said. I reassured her. Soon all four of us were sitting on hay bales, breathing in that womb-like space. As our eyes adjusted, we saw light through the slits in the siding. I sang softly; my voice filled the barn. Perhaps we were there five minutes. Then we stepped back through the door.
“We can see more stars, now that our eyes have adjusted to the dark,” the father commented. They walked to their car and headed home. The magic of our moment had touched my soul: I had unexpectedly found a powerful antidote to the bitter words and cold calculations that now fill the news.
What had they experienced and why had this moment opened for us? That remains a mystery to me. Now I share this story with you, hoping that you too can know that there is solace and comfort in the warm darkness of the Great Mother, the Earth. May we nurture warmth amid the darkness that surrounds us.