some dark (and some light)

Sometimes the dark is scary in the morning.

When you’re alone though, a lot of things feel more scary than they need to be.
I wake up early on so many mornings to open the shop. My hand stumbles around a glass of water half perched on a wad of grocery store receipts and loose change to turn on my lamp.

Sometimes the light stings and I wiggle around for a moment and think to myself, “I am totally taking a nap after work today.”

But it doesn’t matter. Waking up before 6am has always been rough. Perks of working in the coffee and breakfast industry. Maybe it’ll get easier the older I get. Or maybe I’ll finally go to bed before midnight. Something I haven’t been able to do since college.

I often wander into a dark morning. It’s quiet. Unseasonably warm, this time of year, so I don’t have to sit in an ice cold car before my small commute to work. Some days, when I feel like I need more assurance, I turn on my cell phone light, just to make sure I don’t stumble on roots that have decided to lay a home in my front yard for the past 80 years or so.

I don’t mind them.

I fumble around a few spider webs that hang their threads in between the same branches — they inevitably get destroyed by my large frame every day. Those who know me know that I don’t like spiders, and I don’t know any one who likes walking into a spiderweb. But, it’s something I’ve gotten used to with these low hanging branches and vines.

I often get tangled in things I don’t understand.

light-in-darkness

I once met a guy in an anarchist community while living in Portland. He said something to me I’ll never forget.

“I embrace the dark as much as I embrace the light.”

I’m sure it meant something more substantial to him — but I was taken back a bit. Aren’t we supposed to run away from darkness? Isn’t light what we’re always striving to walk towards?

There is a lot of truth in that statement. The yin and the yang.

There is always dark, and there is always light. If you’re any type of human being, you have lived in both and if you’re reading this, have survived some of the darkest moments of your life.

I’ve learned about some of my greatest depths in the dark when I couldn’t see much further than the speck upon the horizon. But, life brings you there.

The guy I met in the anarchist community then invited me to strip naked and join their group in their homemade sauna to welcome the new moon, but I politely declined and took it as a sign that I needed to go home.

There is so much to notice, in the light and in the dark. You learn lessons in both, and often times the light is big, and other times it is small. But still, you move through it and wake up to another day and another world that’s always blending light and dark.

Sometimes, you just have to get tangled and know that even in the great depths of your soul, there is always a light on the horizon.

So get up. (Get tangled.) And get moving.

slow moves

Gently, now.

Slowly pivoting as to not spill my hot tea and mess of scrambled eggs I have mounded on a tiny plate.

I grimace a bit, due to the misfortune of fracturing my foot at work.
I am not good at this. I am not good at this!

That is what I say in my head, and for most people who find themselves all of a sudden limited to what they can and can’t do. Even more so, as walking is a bit of a chore.

Soft.

How do I manage to move around this heavy frame so softly? I can’t say that I do so very well. As a matter of fact, I ripped off the towel rack in one of my best friend’s bathroom trying to save myself from a bad foot placement. Luckily, he laughed after I apologized. Thankful for that grace, indeed.

I fear for my high center of gravity.

Slow.

Slow moves. Robot-like. Sliding my gimpy leg as to not put too much pressure on broken bits.

I am not good at this.

DSC05911

I move back and forth between my couch and my bed. My tiny bottle of pain meds sits next to my heater that can barely keep up the warmth in these old timbers. When I am finally warm, wrapped in my blanket, and the pulse of my right foot dies down to a low slumber, I am grateful for the rest. I happily slide into my worn down pillows and click off the tiny lamp that lights my late night wanderings.

The morning is stiff. A little bit better, I think. I would wake myself up in the middle of the night, jolts of electricity running through my leg from twisting my foot in an odd way. I sit up. Shake it off, and fall back asleep. Less so, now that I’m adjusting.

Sitting in the clinic, I think, “Of course I’m going to write about this!” Because that’s just what I do. I see myself in story.

I can’t help but to wonder when this great moment of clarity will come — when I will feel that all was for this one reason. I don’t think that’s how it will work. But I woke up this morning and felt like I had moved around some heavy things in my dreams.

During the night I would stir about, feeling like I was rearranging some heavy boxes. Much like the one I jammed my foot into. I was pushing them different places. Still able to be found, but in a way, making room for other things. Like new people. New feelings. New thoughts on God and love, giving my body the space to heal from all sorts of things.

It is never a bad thing, finding new light within your soul.

It is there, always, covered up by bombings and elections and having one’s heart broken into a million pieces.

Small moves.

albeit, heavy.

soft.

gentle.

making room for the light to get in.

I suppose when I think about cracks and broken spaces,

they allow room for exposure.

And I think that maybe, Rumi says it best:

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.