And drinking in the dark.
For the last few days I’ve been living without electric lights, just a few candles strategically placed, but otherwise, no lights. Letting the light limit me has changed how I feel about my resources, brought me home to myself in a way I had not imagined. In many years, I choose to do a retreat for the Winter Solstice, meditating, reading, sleeping and eating very little. The world around me is slowing down and I like to slow down with it, find the stillness within. This year the inspiration for canceling the lights came unexpectedly while talking to a friend who had lost power for several days. Listening to him talk about living without power, without the ability to use the computer or cook reminded me of how easy it is to get over-stimulated, pushing the body and mind, revving it up, when, in fact, it needs to slow down.
The longing in me for stillness and quiet runs deep. Here is what I did: I turned off the computer, the phone and shut the door to the office. I prepared a special blend of lemons, ginger and hawthorn fruit with a little maple syrup to keep me going. Through the days, I laid on the couch, sat in the reading chair, sat on the meditation cushion, laid on the floor wrapped in a blanket, and gazed out the window allowing the spacious white sky to seep into my body. After the sun went down I rested my eyes, bathing only in a flickering candle and the waves of the mind as it found the shore. The longing in me answered as I drank in the dark.
I know I am not alone in needing this kind of non-conceptual respite, a break from the regimen of the left brain. We spend so much of our lives in the grip of the mind that is always planning, always doing. When do we absorb, integrate all that has happened? When do we rest? I mean, really rest and I don’t mean sleeping, though I certainly did a lot of that on this retreat to the tune of 10 hours a night, unheard of in my personal history unless I am deathly ill.
For so much of my life, I resisted the dark, especially sleep. I didn’t want to turn my back on knowing and doing. Now, the darkness has a friendliness I have never known before. Resting on my cushion in the dark I feel supported, held, cared for, by this long night. Drinking in the awesome slow shadows while I drink my lemonade, I welcome a deep nurturing silence. Silence, too, has been a large part of this practice. You can’t hear silence unless you listen. Hearing the silence inside and out, and listening deeply without expectation was like eating bacon, warmth and satisfaction infusing each moment.
Where the darkness made the practice friendly, the silence made it simple, clear. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to explain. A special kind of nourishment, the dark, not often imbibed. A special kind of care, the quiet, not often received.
Go ahead, drink in the dark. What’s the worst that could happen?
