Tag Archives: Brianna Kocka

RoD: Pathways

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By Raymond Funk

Does the seed rejoice
when it loses sight of light?
When it is buried
slowly
underneath the earth?
Comfort
in its dark embrace?

Does it understand?
Holy mystery;
potential release;
hull shudder,
creaking,
cracking in the unseen?

Does it feel life’s pull?
Push towards the warmth,
the calling of sun?
Burrow deeper in,
deeper
down
into the richness, the intimate earth?

Pathways through sky and stone,
we push ever further,
into unknown, with unseen force
into the depths and into the heights,
light displays our growth
as darkness conceals it’s source.

RoD: Dancing With Death

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By Peter Bregman

“No art is possible without a dance with death.”

Kurt Vonnegut

The dark chill of a winter in the upper Midwest has a profound impact on the mind; as if the loss of warmth and light begins to form cracks in the walls around our psyche—cracks just big enough to let errant thoughts slip through.

I’ve had them before—morose fantasies of driving out into the night and finding the perfect country road in the middle of the vast white fields, pulling over, turning off the engine, and filling my mind with silence. I could fall asleep under the stars and let the cold night carry me away. On the stillest of nights, I’ve been drawn to the inky-black lake water that I know is too cold to fight. The thought of slipping into the cold darkness has seemed comforting at times.

These images are only passing, like a sudden memory flooding my mind, only to recede as a wave into the nothingness. But instead of reading these thoughts as premonitions or suggestions, I see them as beacons of a simpler truth: winter as death is not a despairing delusion. It is an inevitability, a fact. A marker in our temporal perceptions.

For as long as animals have had thoughts in their heads, they have been aware of the changing of seasons; the parting of springs’ vibrancy and determination for summers’ languid follies and freedom. There has never been any question as to whether winter will come again. Man, bird, and snake have all seen the trees go dormant, the lakes freeze up, and the landscape tucked under the cold blanket of winter. What else could it be but death?

Being caught in the cyclical whirlwind of time doesn’t seem to have rubbed off much on our young species. Every year we fight and curse and dig in our heels. We are determined to make it through winter unscathed. We try to continue on with our lives, futility pretending that the world around us isn’t dying. But we must embrace death! We must allow ourselves to die a little to make room for new spring growth.

Death after all is only the act of relenting to time and submitting to the transient nature of our mortality. Our bodies are relegated to dust; our minds quieted and stilled. The energy in our atoms is assigned a new purpose. If we allow it, winter could be the death of our egos; the cleaning out of old wounds; the cleansing of our minds. In this, death could be the compost for new ideas.

When I have grave visions of walking coatless into a snow-blanketed forest, I smile to myself. I know I have just cleaned something out, done away with an unnecessary grudge, or calmed my mind. The dark of winter is a time when I can reflect on my life, and make room for life to come. It is only in the darkness that we can turn our vision within, and it is only when we look within that we can project the best version of ourselves outward.

RoD: Old Light

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By Karis Kazuko Taylor

I work at an outdoor science school. 5th and 6th graders from the Los Angelus area come to the mountains of the San Bernardino National Forest and it is my job to teach them about photosynthesis, the water cycle, and astronomy. During the early fall months and late spring, astronomy is taught while the sky is still a dusky blue and constellations are mentioned in theory. However, in the wintertime the children step outside of their cabins for evening classes and are greeted by a host of “fire-folk sitting in the air” (poet Gerard Manley Hopkins’ wondrous way of describing stars).

Before I start my astronomy class I always have them lie down on their backs and look, unmoving and silent, up at the stars. For some of them, this is the first time they have seen a night sky unpolluted by city lights.

During the daylight hours we have all kinds of fun exploring the forest: unearthing bugs, hugging trees, etc. I am actively trying to get these children to engage with their environment; I am mediator between small-human and Nature. But in the darkness, when my students are taking-in this canopy of “old light”—I explain to them that the light from the nearest star traveled about four years to get to our eyes here on earth and, that some starlight has journeyed billions of years to reach our retinas, hence the expression, “old light.” Then there is a moment when it is just them, and something more.

That “something more” is something that I do not try to define for them. The impulse to define and dictate the wonders of this strange world so often lead us to push our conclusions upon others, especially children. I try to avoid that. I would rather them feel the mysteries of existence on the skin of their face. I want it to flood their eyes from a billion light years away.

I look at the stars too, during those few moments of quiet and beauty. No one defines or dictates to me either, and I find myself in awe all over again at the time and distance that it took for old light to reach us in this moment. I feel myself small and fragile, and yet somehow miraculously alive and a part of something more than what I can fathom. This world with its beauty and brokenness is not easily explained. I have stopped looking for an explanation. Instead, I am keeping my eyes open for lights in the darkness, and my soul open to something more.

RoD: Aurora Borealis: A Love Song

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By Lindsay McKay

During the winter months, the North is replete with darkness. Darkness invades and it pervades. It is resolute. For weeks on end, the only lights that continually shine are the stars and even the starts are no match for the endless empty space. The moon remains steadfast in the sky; reminding those below that the sun still exists—somewhere beyond the horizon it shines, unmoving. One’s helplessness against the darkness is founded on a forgetting. As winter trudges on, it is difficult to remember that summer will come. Eventually, the Northern Lands will be constantly bathed in a golden light. The Land of the Midnight Sun will shine once again. It is easy to forget that reality when the pitch and the wind work as one to saturate one’s bones with a heaviness that seemingly will not lift. The frigid air overwhelms one’s lungs and freezes one’s heart until it seems that it will beat no longer.

It is common to wonder why one would choose to live in such a deeply dark, cold place. Until one night, the endless black is broken. Great Lights breaks free from somewhere that is unseen. At first, just a whisper of green, the Lights soon begins to grow. They bathe the dark Land in a magical luminescence, which flows between the sparse trees and over the vast, frozen lakes, into the igloos and the teepees, the houseboats and the plywood cabins, into the houses and the apartment buildings. Their radiance is awesome to behold: green, purple, white, blue, red, yellow—the spectrum is endless. The Lights move and dance across the sky, calling, “Here is Life! Here is Life! Northern Lands, come live again!” As the Aurora Borealis streaks across sky, something magical happens: people come out of their homes and answer the intoxicating call of the Lights. The bright colours of night burn bright and true overhead, feedings hearts with Light that had been absent for so long. The Lights rouse something in the people that live beneath them: hope. The people of the Northern Lands breathe in Life once again.

Like Penelope’s tapestry, however, the Lights must unravel and retreat back into the indefinable, cavernous darkness that they came from. It is at once extremely disappointing and indescribably wonderful to watch the Aurora leave again. I can only describe the Northern Lights as a gift from God during the interminable darkness of winter. They are a display of Love that is unique and beautiful. The darkness is a strange incubator of the Northern Lights, for they are a gift that can only come in the midst of extreme darkness. Indeed, as they take flight, they are ultimately a reminder that light only exists in contrast to the darkness. Without the darkness and its great mysteries, we would not be able to fully appreciate the gift of Lights.

Reflections on Darkness Now on Facebook!

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Blogging is easy enough, but keeping people up to date with your blogs is much more of an undertaking. Thus I have created the Reflections on Darkness Facebook page. If you’d like to interact with our weekly reflections in a deeper way, go ahead and ‘like’ our page. Beyond just posting RoD blog updates, every day for the remainder of the reflection series there will be a different quote posted as it relates to the RoD project from various authors, philosophers, theologians, psychologist, and the like.

If you’d like to contribute a quote to be shared on the Facebook page, check out the about section and send me an email.

Happy reflecting,

Brianna

RoD: Dr. Stalwart or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace Uncertainty

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By Wes Kuhnley

A look up into the night sky—in any semi-rural location anyway—will yield an incredible expanse of stars. And on a moonless night, with your naked eye, you can even see the pale mists of the via lactea, our home, our galaxy, the Milky Way. The experience is humbling and for many, slightly terrifying. With even the slightest knowledge of what makes up that mist, an honest person cannot help but become daunted by the nagging feeling of his or her own universal meaninglessness. Such vast distances, such overwhelmingly powerful forces, scales of existence so large and so small it makes, what Richard Dawkins calls our “middle earth”, seem almost trivial.

It is trivial.

After-all, where will any of us be in 30 billion years, as the universe reaches the point it cannot support life (as we know it) any longer? Likely, the material that we are made of will not even be a part of this galaxy anymore. Our Sol will have burned out longer ago than the Universe is old today. Andromeda and The Milky Way will have merged into a galaxy larger yet, to become one of at least one hundred million such structures in the Universe. The particles and elements that make up our bodies could be the part of one hundred or one thousand other stars in that amount of time; a thousand, perhaps a million living creatures, or none at all.

It is just as shocking to consider where all the discrete parts of each of us were 65 million years ago, much less 13.7 billion (give or take) at the big bang. A marginally scientifically-literate person looks at the night sky, comprehends the expanse, the forces of nature at work, and can synthesize why this human endeavor seems so trivial in a truly universal context.

I’d like to consider an alternate perspective on the matter of darkness. Looking up into the darkness can expose things many among us consider best left undisturbed. Some, even many, of these people are increasingly concerned by the growth of our human experience, that it might exceed the boundaries they have arbitrarily placed on their own existence, via dogma or otherwise. Perhaps it is terrifying because they know before they begin, simply and logically, the consequences of such considerations. That, upon inspection, we, as a species, must release the tattered remains of those things, practices and ideas which give us too much comfort, we must break down our self-imposed boundaries.

I prefer (however difficult an idea it is to embrace) to see darkness as an opportunity. Generations of star-gazers who came before us considered the motion of celestial bodies. They derived new and more perfect understandings of the inner workings of the universe, but more than that, their curiosity is solely responsible for what knowledge the human species currently wields. Many of these freethinkers paid terrible prices in pursuit of this knowledge. Exile from their homes, excommunication from their faith, even physical violence, simply for striving to make a small part of the darkness salient to all. Even in understanding they would pay these penalties at the hands of their fellows, each ventured further on into the darkness, continually searching. Their example and sacrifices can allow us to look into the night sky with power and knowledge, and by extension, they empower us to look into ourselves without fear.

As our scientific forefathers have shown by example, the most real, worthwhile knowledge can be gained when we begin to probe the most distant reaches of our universe—and of ourselves—discarding comfort and dependance on the ideas and people which previously prevented our growth. Growth in knowledge of the universe, and in understanding of ourselves as human beings, as people. I look into my own darkness, knowing the consequences of such an inquisition, understanding the price I may well have to pay. When darkness provides me with this opportunity for self-inquisition, how could I, as a rational and honest person, refuse it?

I do not hope, I know there is more to be earned in the effort. I do hope that I am intrepid enough to make the journey, to be honest with myself at all times, and kind to those with whom I share this time and space. I could not exist any other way.

RoD: ‘O Dark of Night More Darling Than the Dawn’

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By Andrew Worthley

‘O dark of night more darling than the dawn’

In a neon world saturated with light, what fool writes about the darkness? There is a challenge here. To write about darkness invariably means to write also about the light. The one illuminates the other. Without its necessary bright counterpoint, the gloaming of the night becomes a suffocating totality of inky terror. And yet, to forever revert to the light is to neglect the deep beauty and permanent truth that is found in the dark. If we only reflect on the darkness as a brief sojourn away from the light that inexorably follows, it becomes nothing more than a means to an end. An act of denial. We cannot always try to escape the shadows.

Because darkness is a natural state of affairs. The dark is real. Living in an electrified age as we do, it is very easy to forget that. For those of us living in the Northern Hemisphere, these long wintry months invite regal darkness to reign with barely a whimper of protest from the sun. And frankly, we are ill equipped to deal with this gloomy blanket. I am ill equipped to deal with it. After all, I am afraid of the dark. A childhood spent in the deep rural countryside meant that my overactive imagination coupled with the midnight gloom to populate my environs with all manner of goblins, zombies and other evil faeries of the night. Real darkness for the adult-me means remembering and re-experiencing that rare intoxicating adrenaline jolt of fear. Now though, I live in the forever brightness of Londontown- a city that Chesterton remarked does not know the darkness of absent stars- and I am almost deluded into forgetting it entirely.

But the dark is fearful and it is here to stay. Yes, it is punctuated by brief luminous glimmerings but it remains the primordial and essential state of affairs. In the Beginning was Darkness and the brooding potential of creativity. It is in this darkness, away from the interference of light, that there is freedom to conspire and imagine. Without the mystery of the dark, I am constantly distracted by the shrieking sound of light, by the fulgent glare of my computer screen, by the flickering sideshow of my television. It is in the wee small hours of the darkest morning when all is still and the world slumbers under its ebony shroud that the unknowableness of being is so potent. In the deepness of night when the act of creation is explosive. Here we can conjure demons yes, but also creative acts of unbearable brilliance. The womb is dark but beautifully so.

For Saint John of the Cross, this darkness showed the way to God. The Saint wrote of a darkness more darling than the dawn, guiding the soul more brightly than the noonday sun. Towards a God who too resided in darkness, spooling creation around Her fingertips. This is the bravest of realities. To know the darkness. To embrace it. Follow it. In all its fearful and dreadful and beautiful splendour. And to know that it is in this ‘deep, insurmountable darkness of Love’ that all of creation finds its home.