There is something about the light this time of year that is especially beautiful. It is slanted, more gentle, waning. The faded stubble of the harvested corn fields catches the eye like some unintended and sexy five o’clock shadow. Trees, unabashed in their nakedness, pool the light in the nooks and crevices of their skin-like bark, the gnarled and cracked showing lovely. Before the landscape burrows down under a blanket of snow, we get to behold its unadorned and stark beauty.
Every other week, I take Mom and Dad to do errands and get groceries. A routine has developed that includes lunch at a local diner and a stop at the thrift store. And we always stop for eggs at a specific farm on New Jerusalem Road because Mom likes “Joseph’s eggs”. The other week when we were out, we pulled in the laneway of this farm just as dusk was deepening. The house was dark, and Mom thought no one must be at home. However, since there is no hydro at this farm, I decided to go to the door anyway just in case.
My knock was quickly answered by the lady of the house. Her warm smile greeted me before she scurried down the cellar stairs to fetch a dozen brown eggs. Daughters were busy in the kitchen by the stove. As I paid Mom’s $2.50 and took the eggs, I asked about the dark. I learned that the lamp hanging above the kitchen table gets lit when the darkness means they can’t see anymore to work. In the evening, everyone gathers around the table under the light to be able to see whatever it is they are doing. And then at bedtime, a light is lit upstairs for those who sleep up there.
As I went back to the car, Joseph, his hair askew under his black hat and his eyebrows askew over those twinkling, faded-blue, crinkled eyes, trundled across the yard from the barn and shed area. He paused and exchanged greetings with Mom and Dad in Pennsylvania Dutch before continuing on to the doddyhaus. And as we pulled around the narrow lane, I glanced back and saw the lamp lit over the table through the kitchen window.
I’ve thought about this approach to light in these darkening days of Advent. What would it look like if we were the kind of light and presence that simply drew people near so they would better be able to see the thing that they are doing, their work of living and making art. What if rather than drawing attention to the light and being a glaring brightness
the light simply was – slanted, mellow, and waning, and full of quiet invitation. I know we need the bright light too when I think of a surgeon making her cut or me threading a needle, but maybe, especially this time of year, we can leave the LED and incandescent brightness for another day. Maybe this time of year, as we gather around table and tree, the light is better on a slant, mellowed and waning. This slanted light is kinder, more forgiving of the gnarled bits and generally more welcoming. It is less about dispelling the dark and more about letting darkness play a part and soften the edges.
I leave you with a poem by Wendell Berry that fits the season – literally and figuratively..
To go in the dark with a light is
to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go
without sight, and find that the dark, too,
blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet
and dark wings.
~Wendell Berry~
P. S. Reminiscing of Europe travels will resume in the new year. đŸ™‚
