Walking in the Dark

I've heard Barbara Brown Taylor quoted in sermons, but it was through hearing her in good old Oprah's SuperSoul podcast talking about lunar spirituality vs. full solar spirituality that had me intrigued and wanting to read her books. Naturally "Learning to Walk in the Dark" was the first title that grabbed at me because it's basically what I feel like I've been trying to do for the past several years.  If you are in need of a book that says it's okay - in fact necessary - to be in the dark, this may be a book you need to read. I Googled books on grief to see if this one would pop up and it did not. I've tried to read other books on grief and while I'm sure there are good ones out there I've only encountered the clinical, 10 ways to get over grief, etc....If you're looking for a book to be a companion as you grieve, this may be a book that helps. (And bonus, it's an easy, relatable read with less than 200 pages.)

Now I'm no saint, I've tried to live the full solar spiritual life which she says, "deals with darkness by denying it's existence, staying in the light of God around the clock, both absorbing and reflecting the sunny sides of faith.  We've learned to be afraid of darkness instead of being open to what the darkness can teach us; being open to the divine light that waxes and wanes with the seasons - lunar spirituality. 

Losing anyone is such a dark place to be. In my case, losing someone with dementia has this weird dynamic because I've lost someone who is still here. I have been grieving for the better part of 3 years. I continue to grieve and I tell you what, I've been there and back again through all the stages of grief. Right now, I hate that some days I actually live as though my Dad is no longer physically present when he is in fact still with us. Dad is still Dad and yet, in so many ways my Dad is gone.

We've put such a timeline on grief. With best of intentions we say things like "God doesn't give you more than you can handle" because we're so afraid to face the dark feelings of sadness, anger, despair. I can tell you honestly, right now I hate hearing those platitudes. It does me no good when all I can simply say is God has given me more than I can handle, my world feels a lot darker without my Dad (as I've known him up until a few years ago).

Barbara writes, "Some of us have even gotten the message that if we cannot do this [grieve] on a schedule, we may not have enough faith in God. If we had enough, we would be able to banish the dark angels from our beds, replacing them with light angels of belief, trust, and praise. [Miriam] Greenspan calls this 'spiritual bypassing' - using religion to dodge the dark emotions instead of letting it lead us to embrace those dark angels as the best, most demanding spiritual teachers we may ever know."

I grew up in the country and lately I've been missing it something fierce. I've been in the city so long I've forgotten everything I learned about darkness by growing up in the middle of nowhere. When I was little, the woods surrounding our house used to terrify me at night because of the stories I would make up in my head. Storms at night were worse than in the day because it would make the trees bend and sway and sounded all the louder in the dark. I had a wild imagination that kept my parents up way too many nights and kept me from seeing, feeling, and hearing all the good things in the dark. As I got older, I learned to face the dark so that I could live and enjoy life. I would go sledding down the hill after supper despite the dark woods right beside me. The whippoorwill was a just a bird with a soulful song to sing rather than a scary noise in the dark. And my Dad, he taught me to face the dark so that I could enjoy the most amazing night skies. My Dad no longer has the memory, but I do - the one of the night we laid down in the damp grass in our front yard by our old garden and I saw the Northern Lights for the first time (I've only seen them twice). There were no scary critters or lurking monsters. Only the greens and yellows dancing across the sky teaching me about peace and contentment and giving me a memory I would need more than ever some 20 years later. 

There's no doubt that there are days where the only way to get through is to avoid the dark. All of last year felt really dark but maybe you wouldn't have known it; I've put on a good game face because I've got 3 kids, 2 side jobs, and 1 busy husband to keep up with.

There are days where I am ever the realist and I can simply say this is what it is. Dad has dementia, there is no cure, we just take it as it comes and deal with things the best way we can in that moment.

There are days where it's sadness and asking God why it has to be this way. And I just don't know what to do with it except let the tears fall while I'm unloading the drier or I'm in the car dodging the rearview mirror so the kids don't see.

There have been many days where I'm simply wanting to find joy in the midst of the sadness and its there in the laughter of my kids, the silliness of Jon, or the smile on my Dad's face when he for a moment plays lap drums to my renditions of Bad Moon Rising or I Won't Back Down. (He had a band with some buddies when us kids were little called The Poison Trolls and CCR and Tom Petty covers were a must.)

And all of these different kinds of days of grieving really have just left me feeling lost and in the dark. 

I'm not even finished reading the book but the reason why I feel it's the best book I've read in relation to grief is because it simply assures me it is okay and it is necessary to be in the dark. Though I can't quite put all the pieces together and verbalize it, I know I am learning things while roaming here in the dark. There are joyous moments in the dark, like the Northern Lights memory. Instead of running away from dark places, we must walk into them.

"If we can learn to tolerate the whack - better yet, to let it wake us up - we may discover the power hidden in the heart of pain." Barbara Brown Taylor