From Fear to Serenity: Embracing the Gentle Darkness of Winter Nights
Darkness doesn’t eat. She just dreams… She spreads through the rooms and fills them with silence and black… Darkness is soft and restful. She’s a very gentle lady.
–Betty Boegehold, What the Wind Told
By Katherine Munter
When I was young, I was very afraid of the dark. It twisted familiar objects into terrifying shapes. It obscured my vision with shadow, and I was certain that in those shadows rested beasts that watched, ready to consume me if I ventured too close.
To complicate matters, I used to sleepwalk. My family reported that during these episodes, my eyes would be open and I’d seem very much awake. At some point, they’d realize I was asleep because I would behave oddly, as though I was responding to something that they couldn’t see or hear.
There were times when I awoke alone in a dark room that I hadn’t gone to sleep in. As my dream world faded, I’d struggle to process where I was. Often, it was the ticking of the wall clock that would announce my location. Then, terrified, I’d summon my courage and make a dash back to the safety of my bedroom.
My childhood home was tucked into the woods, on property that backed 10,000 acres of state forest. One of my biggest fears was that one night, I’d wake up alone in those dark woods and not know how to get home.
I had recurring dreams of closing and locking multiple doors to the outside or zipping layer upon layer of protective sheeting. In my dreams, my task was to keep something out, but at the same time, I was also keeping myself in.
As we grow and change, our dreams also change. Thankfully, with age, my sleepwalking ended. My fears of darkness, however, lingered. I loved Boegehold’s story, What the Wind Told, and I tried to imagine the darkness as a quiet and gentle lady.
Over time, I came to the realization that I could spend my entire life in fear, running from the darkness. Alternatively, I could release my tension and focus on the present moment rather than what could happen. From a place of calm, I was able to relax into my fears and learned to find peace in the darkness, letting my eyes rest and appreciating my space with my other senses.
I grew fond of the quiet beauty of night, especially in the stillness of winter. When the winter winds are calm, night is tranquil. Time seems to slow, as though I’m stepping into a photograph. My out breaths become visible, like little clouds that sit with me for a moment before they fade away.
When the sky is clear on a crisp night, the stars seem to shine brighter, bearing witness to my humanness as I ponder my place in this blink of time. The quiet of winter leaves more space for thought without distraction. Night has a dreamy quality, where creativity can flow.
Darkness can connect us. When I was a new mother, I spent more time awake at night than I ever have before or since. As I sat rocking my baby in a quiet, dark room, my thoughts traveled to all the other mothers who were doing the same. Then to all the mothers who came before me. On those nights, I watched the moon’s path, and I felt connected to women I’d never get to meet. In that dark room, I felt seen.
When you find yourself in the dark of winter, I wish you a time of soft restfulness. A peaceful hibernation when new ideas and imaginings can grow, readying a space for creativity to bloom.
Katherine Munter, clinical psychologist, art therapist, and founder of Creative Life Therapy, an Ann Arbor practice of art therapy and integrative wellbeing. Learn more at www.CreativeLifeTherapy.com.
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