Between Our Steps: The Gift of Night
Cathy Hird reflects on the beauty and necessity of darkness, from starlit winter nights on the farm to moonlit walks and lessons from family life.
Late on a clear February night, temperature minus twenty-five, I drove home to the farm from the city. Switching off the headlights, I turned off the car and stepped out into a space lit by stars. The Milky Way shone bright enough to cast a shadow. Orion had climbed into the sky to the south. Ursa Major and Minor hung over the roof of the house.
That night, I had been to a job interview in the city. I spent the drive home wondering if I would accept the position if offered. The whole way, I was tempted and started to wonder if I could make it work.
But the moment I stepped out of the car, I knew I didn’t want a job in a place where city lights obscured the stars.
Stars are brightest when the temperature falls to minus twenty or below, eliminating humidity. But any time of year, night allows us to see things that daytime does not. When the sun is in the sky, we may see the moon as a pale cloud. At night, it shines.
Heading to the barn on a full moon night, I did not turn on my flashlight. The moon would light my way, and my moon-shadow would lead me.
Outside in winter, night is never dark, as every speck of light is reflected by the white blanket that covers the ground. In the dark season, I lament having to turn on the light to get dressed in the morning and again when I make supper.
But one clear winter evening, attending a Zoom webinar, I glanced eastward. The top of the moon’s arc had crept above the water. A sparkling line of white ran across the waves right to my shore. When I looked again, black bands of cloud intersected with the bright disk. Soon it slipped behind the clouds. But, in the dark sky, I had seen its shining rise.
On a summer evening, I might catch the rising moon, but the reflection on the water would be dimmed by the sun still in the sky. It was darkness that allowed me to see this light.
I have family who use blackout curtains at home. They live in town, with a street light just outside their bedroom window. They need darkness to sleep well. The first time they stayed with me, I realized that the motion sensor light I had installed in the backyard was being triggered by wind. It came on every few minutes all night. Fortunately, it shone away from the house and did not disturb their sleep.
My daughter, a new mom, tells me that babies need darkness to nap. Her baby’s need for the dark surprises me, given that we had no curtains on the windows when she was an infant. She napped in the light all the time. But her baby wants darkness to sleep. They have blackout curtains on the windows and rugs to block light from seeping under the door. Their baby monitor has an infrared mode so they can see how babe is doing when there is no light in the room. As long as it is dark, he sleeps well.
(Lots has changed since my kids were babies. Hers drinks a bottle right out of the fridge. Babe is expected to get the first solids into his mouth himself. And more.)
Where I walk in town, there are several blocks with no street lights. Every house has a yard light, but these are not always turned on. This didn’t matter in August when I moved there, but by the end of October, I couldn't see where I had put my feet.
By November, when we got ice, this was a real problem. I used a flashlight for those fifty meters.
When we rely on a flashlight, a well-defined circle is illuminated and visible. Our eyes adjust to that light. If we look away from where the beam is focused, the darkness feels impenetrable. The shadows seem solid. If we swing the flashlight, the shadows dance. Often, as soon as I can, I turn off the beam so that the darkness is unbroken, welcoming.
Yes, I love the warm summer sun. I appreciate the brightness of a sunny day in March. But darkness is a gift, too.
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