moving toward night, i become more morning

In the east window, the sky turns blue, not like the flash of incandescence under the coffeepot this dark December morn, but shy, like the rain that rustles before it falls, or the first note of the first bird. Sometimes we know them, moments incandescent, but more often the meaning comes only as time burnishes it, candle, not lightning, pearl after slow pearl strung in secret, as we grow more wise. The light turns blue, the coffee steams. Each day now, the world darkening toward zero, I rise earlier just to know that first incandescent blue. Moving toward night, I grow more morning

Judith Cordary

Each day, this season leading to winter, I’ve also found myself rising earlier and earlier, the bedroom surround of windows whispering of the coming dawn, nudging me to wake, the room no longer charcoal black but more like those ashes after the heat is spent.

In the quiet grey, next to the fire, I too sit with my coffee, not heated by the incandescent blue gas flame of the poet, but with the touch of my finger upon the neon blue button of my friend, Keurig. It is the fire next to me that burns blue, but that too was ignited by the touch of a button. I flip the switch, it blazes hot. Across the room, the blue light of the aquarium full of friends, who remind me what it feels like to swim underwater, glows next to the Yule tree, whom I have come to learn was originally adorned with lights to symbolize the sun, moon, and stars gazing upon the Tree of Life. I’ve lain beneath wise old conifers in the dark of a northern night, and witnessed that crowd of stars twinkling in the grace of their branches, and understood that ancient connection.

Gradually, the windows surrounding me let in the light, and I see. Silhouettes of trees, likewise, surrounding me. Concentric circles of surroundedness, expanding beyond the pinpoint of light that i am. Soon, the noise of the day- that light that blinds us to the enveloping darkness– will begin to make itself known, will fill this spaciousness with the clutter (and beauty) of life.

As I grow older, I am coming to prefer these moments of quiet darkness, of invisibility, if you will. They say, in our culture, in particular, that as we grow older, we become more and more invisible– as if that is a shame. I understand what ‘they’ are saying. I feel that too, the poignancy of that loss of identity, of importance, of centrality, of vitality (as in, being seen as vital). If i am not careful, I can trip in the darkness and fall into that same old hole. It is in truth, a very young hole, an old wound, the feeling of being invisible in one’s own family, unseen and unloved, the feeling of unbelonging, and one that i must take care to walk gingerly past, gazing with grace upon it, like an old friend. That hole is also an ego hole, though, the need to be seen as important.

Here, in the dark, I know invisibility as comfort, as strength, as ultimate belonging. It is quiet. It is full. It is mystery. It is deep contentment. It is withness. It is wisdom. Wisdom, that needs not attention, nor affirmation. Wisdom that simply is . Wisdom that is not seen; it sees.

Here in the dark, I rise, as I have now for ages. My hair is now the color of moonlight, reflecting an inner sun that has moved deep beneath the horizon of others, to the center of my soul. I am content, mostly, these days to be that steady unassuming gaze, in the background smiling, a subtler being on the landscape, no longer the center of orbit. I know that, even in the dark, the wisdom of the Moon may light a path across the water… or draw a world-weary eye to wonder, for a moment, at least, pulled out of distraction or despair— or draw the tides of change (although those down below will always imagine it was their cleverness that engineered it). Here in the dark of morning, I see. That to withdraw from the chaos is to see, is to call for the stillness from which true movement might be noticed and embraced.

Here in the dark, no longer standing at a fiery center that demands all to orbit about me, I see. The fire of so many hearths. Hearths that are centers of intimacy and belonging and Love, hearths that were lighted by Love– some of them, perhaps, from mine, before i was thrust into this farther orbit. From this vantage, that is a sight to behold. Being the moon is Ok. I suspect her rising is simply maturing of Love within me.

The world is darkening toward zero. I rise, melting into the morning .

The coffee is cold in my cup. Obstructions grow more visible. I sense their sharpness and shadows. But I step around that hole. With the wisdom of age, Love also matures, and that stepping aside is beginning to feel easy. Right. Natural.

I carry the Wisdom of darkness within me, more and more, these days, even when the light threatens to overwhelm its truth of wholeness, of completeness, of oneness.

Of stillness.

Of presence.

Of peace.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Shristy Singh
    Feb 06, 2021 @ 21:52:23

    Nice blog

    Like

    Reply

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