Evening Light

"A New Normal?" by Randy Heinitz, via Flickr.com (Creative Commons License)

“A New Normal?” by Randy Heinitz, via Flickr.com (Creative Commons License)

I am uneasy at dusk. The early darkening of the sky obscures my vision, and the edges of the images around me blur in the descending sun, not yet illuminated by the moon. Shadows are cast in a way that shortens distance, trees nod at ominous angles. Seasonally, dusk brings the invasive biting of mosquitoes or a sudden chill in the air. Even the sounds change — evening insects screech, or the wind calls. Time is simply passing through another day, but I long to escape to a brightly lit, contained space that makes me feel safe.

I crave the clarity of easy sight, of perceiving what is before me, and behind. Not knowing what may be hidden in the shadows creates a physical response — I breathe less deeply, move more quietly, hesitant to disturb whatever is unknown, and very possibly, unwanted.

It has always been this way for me, this physical and psychological discomfort in things that are shadowed by the evening hour. The metaphor is not lost on me.

At what age do we imagine we are inhabiting our own personal dusk? None of us knows the days that are given us. Will our night wait to fall at 95 years of age? 85? 75? Or will evening come unexpectedly, like a storm blackening the sky in the late afternoon? Youth gives way to middle years as we hurry through time, building careers and raising children and planning futures. Some find openings in their busy lives to seek a kind of spiritual awakening, or develop some nascent understanding of a larger picture, striving to understand a personal place in that universal vastness. But oh, the arrogance of believing we know. Or is it faith? Oh, the slightest darkening of our own evening sky. When do we realize that the discomfort of not knowing what lies ahead is amplified by the absolute knowledge that darkness will come, perhaps not for many years, but perhaps tomorrow?

Learning to surrender is so hard. But the tighter our grasp, the firmer the hold of the unknown. A clenched fist cannot receive the gifts it is offered, blessings cannot be seen through eyes squeezed shut and arms wrapped tightly across constricted chests. There must be a way to soften to the darkness and adjust our vision to the filter of the evening sky. To submit to what we do not know, and find an uneasy peace in the setting sun. The black of night is not upon us just yet, though its certainty may be a guidepost. Now is the time, it tells us. Do not wait to act. Do not wait to speak, to hear, to love. In the coming darkness, silhouettes draw near. Are they shadows of ourselves, or spirits beckoning? Step in. This is the reward. We may find a strange and unexpected freedom in this place — a new and truthful way of being. A dusky vision may reveal a different kind of beauty. The shadows may open our eyes to layers of grace.

About Stefanie Levine Cohen
Stefanie Ruth Levine Cohen is a writer, instructor and full-time volunteer focused on issues involving birth, death, afterlife and the human condition. Her work explores moments of transition in people’s lives and focuses particularly on the intersection between the psychological and the spiritual. Stefanie’s signature workshop, “Writing from the Heart,” helps writers at all levels explore their personal truth through authenticity and creative expression. Stefanie has studied religion, spirituality, meditation and intuition with numerous teachers including Sylvia Boorstein, Joan Borysenko, Deepak Chopra, and James Van Praague. She earned bachelors and masters degrees in English from the University of Pennsylvania and a JD from New York University School of Law. Stefanie’s writing has been published in a variety of literary journals and anthologies and can be viewed at www.stefanielevinecohen.com.

1 Comment

  1. so lovely, how deeply i understand………

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