Duet
First a meditation, then I share about a lifelong passion: darkness.
Waves
Breath is a waveform. Inhaling, I bring the current toward me; exhaling, I send it away. Breath begins with a spark, and the lungs are engines coming to life—steam engines. The spark of life sets a cascade of activity in motion. The wave of motion begins with expansion, and alternates with contraction. We are played like accordions by God’s hands. We are as numerous as the sands, yet one breath matters so much; the first breath and the last breath matter the most, and these are the breaths over which we have the least control. We can control the waking breaths in between.
Light is a wave form. Our bodies undulate like seaweed in a bath of light, harmonizing and coregulating with light; our eyes follow a cycle, too, of expansion and contraction; we sleep all night, and we sleep seconds with every blink. Our eyelids matter so much. Our eyelids are the maestros of havdallah; the song, “Roll into dark / Roll into light / Night becomes day / Day turns to night” orchestrates the rhythm of all living things, the ripple waving over us and causing us to sway religiously, to stand, and bow, and stand, and bow in worship of what we can see, rather than worshipping the breath, the invisible breath, that can’t be captured; as soon as you hold it, the clock begins ticking. We can’t hold our breath forever, nor can we exhale forever; on a wave of breath, voluntary and involuntary systems surf together, trading who leads.
Darkness
Why is there a fear of the dark, even in safe conditions?
The lies we believe are: Darkness is nothing. Darkness has no value. Darkness is scary. Darkness is unsafe. Modern lighting helps us be productive. The visible world = reality. Darkness only affects our eyes.
The truth is, we can grow from exercising an underused faculty. Darkness is a free and accessible resource for rejuvenation, nourishment, relaxation, and self-discovery. We can heal ourselves. The survival of every living thing depends on darkness. If we allow light to encroach… we will lose our species; we will be bereft of seeing stars; we will experience burnout. We must be custodians of this natural resource.
Normally, when it gets dark, we flip on the light. People are uncomfortable in the darkness for myriad reasons—survival instinct; archetypal or classic fears; pressure to be perpetually productive; work schedules not informed by biology but by economy; fear of the unknown.
I’ve been fascinated by the concept of dark adaptation, and performed my own experiments since 1995, when I learned about the Purkinje Shift in Dr. Vesna Sutija’s Perception class at NYU.
Darkness is equated with the underworld, and symbolizes danger. Parks are closed; access to dark nature spaces is restricted or limited; artificial lighting scatters and disperses, diminishing our capacity to see celestial bodies—it’s our cultural milieu—I don’t need to explain.
Though there’s a lack of science proving the benefits of darkness retreats, the testimonials of retreatants are super compelling. Sky Cave Retreats publishes clips of video interviews from people emerging from 3-, 5-, and 6-day dark immersions.
What research is there on how our other senses respond to darkness? What about heartrate, respiration, and skin conductance data?
Because other senses enliven when vision is compromised, it stands to reason that dark immersion increases brain plasticity. I wrote about this in Discover Magazine (Sept/Oct 2023).
DARK IMMERSION, PRACTICED REGULARLY, HAS WELLNESS BENEFITS.
What is the difference in the brain/body response when eyes are open in the pitch darkness versus wearing a blindfold, or actually being blind?
When we encounter darkness, our prior experiences, our beliefs, and our imaginations fill in the blanks and shape our attitudes and responses.
When we can’t see ourselves in pitch darkness, our mirror neurons experience a special condition, and this could underpin the discomfort people have:
I am a camera. I take an impression of the temperature humidity, the smell of autumn leaves baking in the sun, and the sound of my chickadees skipping from rock to rock, crossing a log bridge, leaping onto a boulder. They wander farther and farther… and I stand still.
I watch pieces of bark shed and fall, while a woodpecker dines on tiny insects living beneath the tree skin. To me, the sound of birds pecking wood is like the percussion section of a delightful pop-up symphony.
The music of nature is ripe for foraging.
I’ll always remember when I asked, “Hey, Mom—wanna see Jupiter? It’s bright in the sky tonight.”
She said yes!
We stargazed together a few memorable times. This time, I was 48. “Need your cane?” I asked.
“Why would I need a cane? I got you.”
Mom gives me the opportunity to be a hero, after all my life she was mine. Unfortunately, with chronic health issues, she needs help sometimes; fortunately, she accepts it graciously. She represents all that is good in the world. If only more people had her tolerance, her poise, her warmth, and her selflessness! The world would be a better place.