I checked the front door. Had I locked it? No. I stepped out into the night air – it was softly spiced with woodsmoke. Whisps of cloud drifted over the moon. It was a time of rest and refreshment, after a day of March winds and sun.
The night’s darkness is not like the darkness of the soul. There is no rest when the soul sees no light but, instead, a campaign to survive, to keep going, a hope against hope. I think much of our life is lived there. Success, power, fame, even human love are sought and craved, in order to fight off the darkness.
Some people encounter the darkness. More of us, I think, only sense it, and the battle to survive leaves wounds. It’s clear to me that those wounds carry their infection down through the generations.
I’m thinking of Depression. It’s been a thread in my family. Where did it start? I’ve no idea. Sadly, intuitiveness and sensitivity lay people open to it. It has been there, in my family, and in me. ‘Victim’ is an overused, even abused word; we have become captive of these unrecognised influences.
If we understand the process, there is a route to healing.
The Dark Night of the Soul. A gentle, moonlit night. A thread runs throughout my reflections here. It is the loveliness of the natural world. My children and I sought and found that by the canals of West London, 40 years ago – and by the river Brent, beneath Hanwell church. And on the hill above Northolt church.
And in the Autumn mists, when the conkers fell and the fallen leaves were moist and deep…
And we look to a Light which the darkness cannot put out.
That’s where I rest my hope.