The Day Floods the Night

A Just-Get-to-the-Point Metaphor

The night feels darker when lost deep in the forest. Cradled under treetops and cloaked from the light of the sky, everything looks different. Once-familiar paths shift unexpectedly and snake-like, veering off at odd angles. The dark is dramatic, altering every little bit of light and making shadows reach towards us from around corners. 

With our flashlights, we illuminate narrow hallways between the trees ahead. Regardless of how bright, nothing is ever clear. North looks the same as south, and east the same as west. But we continue on, the light in our hands bouncing with our steps —  a beacon to whatever hides nearby.

We tend to think of the night in hushed whispers and muffled voices, tiptoes, and quiet sighs. But in the forest, the night noises are loud. Echoes multiply, moving towards and away from us simultaneously. Twigs snap behind us even if no one is there. Our footsteps sound like that of many — no matter how lightly we step. Leaves scamper despite the stillness of windless air.

We feel vulnerable, unsure, and unprepared. A minute seems to take much longer than a minute and self-doubt seeps in like a spill soaked up by paper. No one saunters through the dark wood. We move fast, pushed ahead by the dark behind us. 


We all have dark times. When we try to describe it to another or even understand it in hindsight, it seems like something is lost in translation. Dark times cannot be shared like the good times are. 

When we find ourselves in a dark place, it can feel like being lost deep in the night forest. If you are in those dark woods now, you aren’t alone. Some of us are there with you, with wide eyes that search for dawn.

But, the passing of time is certain. The day will flood the night, making what was once shadowed become enlightened.

Things will get better. Or maybe we just get better at things. Either way, we come out on top so there is no sense in running, in panic. The point is that we will rise stronger and with a greater understanding of ourselves, our purpose.

Take these difficult moments in. Live them, breathe them. Focus on how the night air feels wrapped around you. Take your control back and light a match. Sit in that dark forest and rest beside the campfire. 

We have to fully experience the dark in order to truly appreciate the light. 

Purpose becomes renewed with a fresh set of eyes….

I’ll see you in the morning.


“Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.” 

Earl Grollman

Also published on Medium. Read me here.

Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

Tiger’s Eye Glowing

Photo by Andrea Tummons on Unsplash

Tiger’s eye glowing, into mine of hazel.

Dive right in,

without hesitation;

a free-fall.

Past the noise and the clutter and into the darkness of it all.

Into the center…

where the mess is.

A moment of refuge found;

the drifters’ solitude eclipsed.

;

Tiger’s eye glowing, into mine of hazel.

Find asylum within the intensity;

within the thirst and the longing and the hurt of it all.

Within the rose garden;

where every dance is always the last,

and greetings are made with a goodbye kiss.


;

cross posted on Medium

That Sudden Lone Light

Photo by Immortal shots on Pexels.com

Can I tell you?

Can I tell you how I crave that flash of white- that sudden lone light?

The one that finds me— in surprise —  in the deep, deep, dark tunnel where I hide.

Can I tell you how time stopped; standing just perfectly still?

A split second somehow stretched into a space filled with forever.

Breath removed from the air; underwater sounds whispered in my ear.

My frozen stare; blinding and surreal.

My North Star. So brilliant and white.

;

Will you be gone in a flash — like the flash in which you came?

Gone — and only the craving of light left to remain?

Blow through me then — would you mind just blowing me away?

Please can I tell you?

Can I tell you what happened?

Can I tell you how I need you to tell me, too?


;

I am Made of Night

Photo by luizclas on Pexels.com

The night: her darkness, rising.

A cold and loud
river rushing,
and shining,
but only from
your moonlight.
The reflection,
a gift, transient.

Her hollow wind;
blowing,
through minds
and
pulling from memory
are
words whispered softly;
sweetly.
Lies.

Blackened star dust,
floating.

and I am made of night.