Unilluminated and steamy silence

Sometimes you have to enter the dark to be in the light.

That thought attached itself this morning during my regular after-laps-no-lights sauna visit when interrupted by another. She entered, then automatically flipped the switch. "Don't you want some light?" "No," I responded, "I prefer the dark because the light makes my sinuses worse," I weakly – and somewhat untruthfully – mustered.

Couldn't quite fathom telling a complete stranger why I like the dark. Maybe I could have. She countered with: "I don't really like it either. Guess I just do what everyone else does, to turn them on, without thinking. Maybe we should be rebels." I thanked her for honoring my request and asked if she wanted them on when I left. She didn't either.

I sense she would have understood that the dark, to me, is comforting and not a place to fear. It's a place to slow down, be myself, find myself and often find God. I have mentioned before that I consider this cedar sauna my prayer box. One I can actually enter ... usually alone. I have also connected frequently and deeply with others over conversation or just sitting in the unilluminated and steamy silence.

Today's experience reminds me of an extended silent Quaker worship I facilitated a couple of years ago. Another Friend and I arrived early and hunkered down for the duration of over two hours. This was something I was very much looking forward to, not dreading. A few streamed in later, but before then and just as the worldliness was beginning to fade and I was traveling to that foggy zone where my mind sleeps and something else takes over, someone walked in and asked: "Do you want light?" I had not even noticed we were worshipping in the natural light. Again, I said no. And this internal answer to that question arose:

Do you want light?

[a voice interrupts my worship in darkness]

Only the natural

I prefer darkness

to hibernate

to germinate.

being in the light, exposed

means pushing against

the grain and takes

all of my strength

In silent worship,

First I become bodily numb,

slowly the pain drains.

I feel the energy – God’s love –

creep back in.

The stillness is recharging.

As I recede inside

myself, I can detach

from my life . It loops

like film reels. I

watch it pass.

A sudden heavy sigh and

another layer of pain

is released. My body

grown lighter – more

deeply still. My roots

attach more deeply.

My heart’s burdens

are lifted and heard.

I begin to feel more

whole. More able to

be with God.

I am re-awakened into

a new place. A place

of wisdom, healing, love. A

place where I can be –

am with God.

Now, I can listen – truly.

Quakers spend so much time concerned with the light that some neglect the flip side. I am drawn to the traditional Quaker phrase "being convicted by the light," which means to let God's light shine into the dark recesses of ourselves. Any exploration into that darkness shines a light of some type: awareness, introspection, assistance, gratitude, healing, recovery. I don't claim that it's easy or pain free, but it does aid us in becoming more of who we are when we address the shadows, maybe even lingering: resting, waiting, percolating on the journey toward wholeness.

• What does darkness mean to me?

• Where do I find more comfort: in the dark or light?

• Why and is that a habit?

• What happens when I move out of my comfort zone?

• How can the darkness lead me to light?