The Dark Times: Day One

The dark outside has been thick for several hours already and its only 7pm. In the meantime the moon has been steadily rising in the east, following the worn-in pathway it has walked so many times before.

Seasonally, it is a time of quiet here on the east coast, Northern hemisphere. The leaves are finishing their slowly winding paths from branch to forest floor, from branch to roadway, from branch to sidewalk, from branch to ground, to ground, to ground.

Unseasonably, it is warm outside. Unseasonably, barely a frost has kissed the ground. Unseasonably, we still walk barefoot in the park; the kids still splash through puddles without distress or chilly toes.

We are wrapped in the familiarity of a cycle both ancient, entirely natural, and also, not. These are the dark times. The days when daylight is short and sweet and the night stretches long and silent in front of us each evening. We are creatures as sensitive to our surroundings as the others we share this planet with, and there is no way the changing before us is not felt by all. And yet, we are expected to continue on as though nothing is happening. As though we are not part of the earth’s ecosystem, evolved to carry carbon in our bones like trees. The dark beckons. The hibernation time is upon us. We create holidays to fill our evenings with light and laughter. We gather, we sleep, we rest, we struggle, we miss the sun, we hold the temperature of the tropics in our hopeful and ever seeking souls.

We, sensitive as the animals we indeed are, can feel the tiniest changes in our surroundings whether we like to realize it or not. Wind, weather, barometric pressure, planetary alignments, seasonal changes, time of day, moon phase the list could go on, and on, and on. We are instruments of measurement, delicately attuned to the greater web of connections, life, and patterns both constant and shifting around us.

Ten years ago when I started writing in earnest after my child was born, many of us were already aware and terrorized by the knowledge our climate was busily changing in such a way that life on earth would one day be a different version of reality.

The warnings were grave, and clear. Unless humanity shifted its course entirely, and gave up a lifestyle of utterly maniacal dependence on a list of resources indefinite at best and finite at worst, we could expect to face declining baselines, rising shorelines, soaring temperatures, mixed up seasons, and our dear sweet planet, the very ground beneath our feet, forever and epically changed.

And we haven’t. Shifted our course entirely.

We didn’t, and we haven’t and we’re not and the truth is, we won’t.

Everything goes on exactly as it was; as it has been. We march forward in an ever increasing desperation fueled by capitalism, and economics, and productivity, and the quest for more and more and more.

But what are we questing for exactly? Certainly we all have everything we could ever need. Clothing, and housing, and agricultural fields, and lumber, and bicycles, and silverware, and metal bowls, and steel, and sidewalks, and asphalt, and oil wells, and cars, and construction sites, and clear cuts. Enough for everyone if distributed properly and also none of it necessary at all. Mostly what we have accumulated amounts to nothing, amounts to trash in the landfill, amounts to stuff turned mountainous, larger than life, as wide and deep as the ocean, and we at the service of it all, like slaves.

Here, on the information superhighway we seemingly have everything. Every piece of information at our fingertips; daily, more and better ways to hold it, transfer it, send it, file it, store it, and live within it, in an ever growing and seething lava flow of the meaning of everything under the sun.

How then, are we still hollow? How are so many of us plagued by the sense that something is wrong, that things, very important, but long forgotten, are missing from our busy and anxiety ridden lives?

And more importantly perhaps than the question of how we came to be in this place is the question, “what on earth are we supposed to do now?”

The latter, I think, is the question to explore. As more and more of us open our eyes to the difficulties we are facing here in modern life; as the pandemic years have highlighted so many of society’s most unseemly underbellies; as hatred, and frustration, and inflation reach an all time high; as the supply chain shows it’s weaknesses again, and again, and again; as the climate shifts, and changes, and shifts again, it is clear we are living in collapse. End stage capitalism is not a very pleasent place to be except maybe for the most well heeled, wealthy, and powerful, enjoying their positions at the helm.

So, what, on earth, if anything, can the rest of us DO?

Certainly, humans are problem solvers. We’re tool makers, and story tellers. We’re poem writers, and prayer sayers. We’re singers, dancers, and music makers. We can walk long miles without tiring; we name the stars and the stones beneath our feet. We feed each other, we hold hands, we hug. We sleep sweetly, together in bunches, soft, and silent, and deep in dreams. We make friends with animals. We are animals. We look at the sky and say “moon.”

The changes to our planet are coming. In fact, we are living with them now. No longer can we wish away the fact that our actions are having an impact on the entire world as we know it.

Action is satisfying. Solving problems is reassuring. Living in the liminal? Is definitively not.

Although the liminal space has a beauty all its own, doesn’t it? Once we know where we have been, but not exactly where we are going, we are granted a tiny bit of freedom right? Some space to decide how we will navigate the changes to come. Maybe the chance to plan the ways in which we will face the changing tides.

I think part of our job now is to protect. The places and creatures most under siege. The longer we hold onto them, the more chance they will have of adapting to the circumstances at hand.

I think part of our job is to dream. To let the darkness hold us while we breathe new life into being. Like the bear cubs born to their hibernating mother, we can allow new life to spring forth in our overwintering cave.

And I think part of our job is to connect. With ourselves and with each other. To reach out in the good moments and the bad. To hold ourselves and each other in love, and with love. To allow our shadow parts to surface, and grieve, and wail, and complain, and shout, and yell, and struggle. To feel anger, and hope, and to seek truth., and beauty, and growth.

The dark time is a short season. To me, it starts when we shift our clocks, and ends when we slide them back to their rightful position, as the days lengthen and the green season returns again.

But the dark time is important too. It asks us to live with little light. It asks us to embrace that which we tend to avoid. It asks us to get comfortable with what we spend a lot of time and energy artificially pushing away.

I know myself well enough to know I process what is in my heart with my hands. With my pen and paper, or keyboard and glowing screen. I know myself well enough to know sharing my truth through writing creates channels in my life for connection to flow through. I know myself enough to know that I write for my own survival, to connect to a presence bigger than myself, and to reach an ancient place of sharing that I have to consistently remind myself is important for my well being even though I already know that to be true.

So here is a little winter project. An exploration of the question “what on earth can we DO?” An attempt to turn concentrated attention to the issues at hand. A dive into the dark nights and shadowlands. A reminder to myself that light lives in places we sometimes forget, and that the hours without sun have a luminescence all their own. And an acknowldegement that the dark times are here. Seasonally, yes, but also in the form of civilization itself. In the end time capitalism knocking on our doors. Here’s to our seeking, and our surrender, and in our still beating hearts that will always find a way.

I’ll be shooting for daily posts. Mostly unedited, I just need a place to think and play with ideas, so I apologize for typos and grammatical errors in advance. Feel free to join me in your own journalling journey, and PLEASE reach out if you have something you’d like to share.

Thank you for listening,

Love,

Natasha