One of the greatest Life gifts I have received has stemmed from the most challenging times in my life. What sort of gift can come from pain and struggle? For me, it has been this solid piece of knowing: Almost all spiritual growth requires a time of seeming “darkness.”
Why would I consider this a “gift?” It has taken a lot of suffering for me to learn that this sort of darkness is not something to be feared, but to be entered into willingly and with trust that the darkness is making way for new growth, for transformation. Before this realization, darkness was terrifying because I felt alone, vulnerable, and incredibly uncomfortable. And as a result, I usually reacted by doing everything I could to avoid, numb and distract myself from whatever pain I was going through.
But after a particularly long and painful time, following the loss of everything I had come to know as my “life” – an 8-year marriage, my only child, my cozy and comfortable life in the mountains, and my community – I began to feel a presence with me in the darkness of it all. In the midst of my deepest grief, feeling abandoned and betrayed, I spent a lot of time in reflection, prayer and solitude. In these quiet moments, I began to actually hear messages that were comforting and reassuring. Every time, a moment of surrender would precede this sense of presence, “I cannot do this anymore,” I would cry out – many times out loud. “I can’t carry on like this.” And then something would happen – a comforting message would come, the phone would ring with exactly what I needed to hear, or just an overwhelming sense of peace would consume my grief.
Many of these moments occurred outside as I was sharing a very small space with a dear friend who was completely supportive and loving. But I was sensitive to not wanting to burden her constantly with my struggle. And I discovered that moving my body and being in nature alone was quite healing.
It was the coldest winter in 25 years in Illinois (where I was living at the time) and yet I would spend a good portion of each day wandering the woods or crying on the chalk bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River. On these walks, I began having experiences in nature that were so profoundly beautiful and moving that it actually felt as though something greater than myself was holding me. I consider this presence as “divine Love.”
David Whyte has a poem called, “Sweet Darkness” that resonates deeply for me. Here are the verses that touch me most:
…
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb
tonight.
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see…
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything and anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
Perhaps, then, going into the darkness is not about figuring out how to see, but to be seen by Love, which knows the best pace and path for our growth. When we are under the illusion that we are in control of our lives, maybe the blinding of darkness is the most loving thing for our progress in the long run. My experience has been that this “night vision” develops and strengthens over time to be less blindness and a truer sense of vision – spiritual seeing.
A year ago, after coming through another less-intense stretch of darkness, a friend of mine shared something she had read about snakes. Apparently, they go blind right before shedding their skin. In many indigenous cultures and mythologies, snake represents transmutation or transformation. May I continue to be more like the snake, trusting in my blindness that the darkness is caring for me like a “womb,” birthing me into a fresh, new way of being.
