In Dark Times

In Dark Times


What pushes back the dark is knowing

we are each living, breathing stars

linked in constellations of community

that arc across the sky. Our legacy

is the light we choose to leave behind,

which we don’t always see for ourselves.


What I’m trying to say is that you have

no idea what kind of night someone

might be holding inside, and a single

soft word offered in passing can become

the north star that carries them home.

Only when accepting that we are more than what we gain and more than what we lose can we be illumined by the presence and wonder that allow the stars to push back the dark.

—Mark Nepo, Surviving Storms

We are so much larger than what befalls us, and our moments of good fortune and obstacles both call us to go down below the surface of things, where life feels more eternal and real. Sometimes, I can enter this place of presence and wonder on my own, but more often, some outer event has to push me into that deeper opening of spirit where I see how linked we all are, like constellations in a single sky, and how just a “single soft word” can become the light of a north star that guides and carries someone home. The other day, sitting with my husband Brad on the couch, waiting out a rain storm so we could walk down the road and check the mail, I happened to see a message from a dear friend, telling me about the “aggressive cancer” for which she had just had an operation. Just those words alone—aggressive cancer—sent me into worry and fear for her. Though I tried to quiet it, I admit I was agitated for the rest of the night, even as we walked through a beautiful shroud of mist wrapped around the trees, even as I picked a few sour-sweet thimbleberries finally ripened by the side of the road. Yet beneath the agitation, when I sat alone on the porch steps in the drizzle, was still the essential aliveness of the world. Tiny raindrops caressed my bare arms, as I listened to the high-pitched chatter of hummingbirds, disturbed by my presence near the butterfly bushes where they feed. I somehow knew my friend would be okay and sent her a few words of love. And again, what I am learning to call a “grateful grief” arose in me, a thankfulness for the many gifts I receive each day, alongside the sorrow of knowing everything must go and change. Whatever I touched that evening seemed to take on a shimmer—the zucchini and summer squash I sliced and sautéed, green beans cooked with butter to the perfect point of softness. I was softening too, telling Brad as we sat down to dinner, “I’m so glad I get to spend my life with you.” A gentle rain still glazed the windows, while the light of our small lamp pushed back the darkness around us.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: What “pushes back the dark” for you right now? Is there some moment of presence and wonder you entered recently, which seemed to help you accept that we are more than what we gain and lose, that our aliveness and love are larger than any agitation we might feel?

I’m thrilled to share that my latest book, The Sacred Everyday, is now available for pre-order, and will be released by Andrews McMeel in late October! You can order signed copies from my local indie bookshop here, and they will ship anywhere in the U.S. This book, a collection of my own poetry, is one that’s close to my heart, as it holds sorrow and joy and delight in the natural world all in the same open-hearted way. As many of you probably know, pre-orders are one big way to support authors because they can help to assure the publisher that an author is reaching readers.