Author: Rachel Scott

• 7:48 AM: sunrise.
• 4:30 PM: sunset.

That’s right, it’s full winter in Vancouver. And It. Is. Dark.

When darkness descends, my immediately reaction is resistance. The long night is too quiet, too settled, too oppressive. Slowing down feels like depression, sadness, existential malaise. The darkness is a gaping maw of introspection. Like a bear with FOMO, I eye the depths of my den reluctantly, avoiding the call to settle in and stop.

I hate slowing down.

My natural rhythm is fancy go-go, Times Square relentless, push through tapdance. But this winter, as the days shortened, something was different.

Rather than resisting the dark this season, I began to feel my way into its heavy quiet. And in the quiet, the gifts of darkness began to emerge.

Letting go

The darkness invites us to pare down, conserve energy, slough off what is unnecessary. Like trees shedding their leaves, we unburden ourselves of extraneous activities and distractions in order to hone in and nourish what is most essential. Our core values – like winter’s stark branches – are revealed in their elemental beauty. Saying no to the extraneous allows us to feed what is most essential to our souls.

Getting quiet

The dark descends with a blanket of quiet. The borders of our world soften inward, the boundaries of our world hug in. When we retreat from the noise of the outer world, our inner voice can be heard. Like the blind prophets of Greek tragedy, closing our eyes to the outer world allows our inner sight – insight – to emerge. As we quiet, the wise voice at our hearts reminds us of deepest values, and sometimes neglected desires.

Finding the light

Ultimately the power of the dark reminds us how to nourish our own inner light. By finding quiet, alone time, we kindle our inner fire, discover the burning source within, reclaim the power of cultivating our own power. We recognize the deep inner safety that lies within us; we can trust our own inner goodness. The light inside us is always there, but can often be obscured by our relentless seeking in the outer world. Going inwards is like bringing wood to our inner campfire, helping to bank the flames that sustain us. For some of us, we are fed by the solitude. For others, our lamps are fed by gratitude. For others, we are sustained by the feelings and integration that come from letting ourselves simply and fully be. Whatever the particular source, we remember that we are whole and perfect in our imperfection in this moment.

As we begin to move towards the light, consider:

• What lessons lay in the quiet?
• What can we leave behind as we move forward?
• What sustains and feeds our inner fire?

Happy New Years, everyone!

xo

Photo.

Solar eclipses are spectacular.

There was recently a partial solar eclipse. Miraculously, the perpetually cloudy Vancouver skies cleared at just the moment of the eclipse’s maximum expression.

I raced out onto the office patio, shielding my eyes and squinting up at the sun (an enthusiastic, but slightly dumbass move, since you’re not supposed to look at the sun with your naked eyes). And although the sun’s light still shone brightly, a piece of it was missing. A strange dark leviathan had moved across its face, making the sun less than perfectly round. And in that moment, the edges of the sun – and its brightness – were visible.

A solar eclipse is special because the moon is moving across the face of the sun at just the right angle to partially obscure its sunlight from the earth. In a full solar eclipse, the moon completely covers the sun’s face, so that its rays create a spectacular halo around the dark edges of the moon.  Through being obscured, we can see the sun’s true luminosity shining from behind.

Although we continually feel the effects of the sun, we usually don’t really see it. It’s simply too bright; it lives in the world “up there” and is only visible to us when it descends deeply enough towards the horizon to be obscured by our planet’s atmosphere – or when there is a solar eclipse. The sun’s own brightness masks it from perception.

We experience similar galactic movements.

The brightness of our highest essence is always present, visible in the effect we have as we express ourselves in the world. However, this light is so ubiquitous to our “us-ness” that we don’t directly perceive its power. Similar to the sun on a cloudless day, our highest nature is strangely invisible; we are hidden by our own brightness.  When our lives are joyful, we take the light for granted, and we do not see ourselves.

Darkness bring revelation.

I remember sitting with my ex-husband on the battlefield of our marriage, the day that I told him we weren’t ever getting back together.  We were both emotionally exhausted. depleted, depressed.  Through our pain and fear, we had torn each other down, been blind to each other’s pain, and utterly depleted our resources. Like collapsing binary stars, the gravitational force that had originally pulled us together was now destroying us. In my despair, I had turned to cutting myself to relieve the pain.

We may not always like what is revealed by the shadow.

The darkness that came into my life through my marriage revealed what had been hidden from view.  When life was happily rolling along, I did not see my broken edges, my unfinished business. Only when the shadow fell did these places become exposed. And only in the darkness was there an opportunity to witness, heal, and connect consciously to a greater source, a place of deep compassion and growth in the midst of vulnerability and pain.

When the darkness reveals who we are, can we sit in the vulnerability of our exposure?  Can we dare to be so poignantly revealed?  The darkness allows us to more fully experience our resiliency, grace, compassion, and power.  We shine from behind. We become more sensitive to our sweetness, vulnerability, and humanity.  Through the shadow, we perceive our light.

With my ex-husband, I wanted to resist the revelation; to avoid the terrifying exposure of who I was and what I had created through my fear and pain. But only through this exposure could I heal my broken places. In the darkest hour of my marriage, I discovered my ability to become accountable, speak my truth, and stand in my own light.

The darkness provides the very instruments through which we are able perceive and evolve our highest selves most fully. While we may not embrace the darkness for its own sake, we can open to its poignant offering to become more exposed, visible, connected, and alive. Through darkness, we become most fully, brilliantly, and sweetly revealed.

One may not reach the dawn save by the path of night.  – Kahlil Gibran

Finding your essence by cutting back

Imagine a gorgeous rosebush in the fullness of her bloom: overflowing with fragrant flowers, dripping with honeyed scent, full of wild, buzzing bees.

During the summer, we are like this rosebush: lush, busy, sensual, full of distraction and sensual delight.  We romp late in the perpetual daylight, drink pink wine on patios, dance attendance at outdoor barbeques, and romp enthusiastically into nature. Our lives are full of social engagements: weddings, friends, and (in Vancouver, at least) eating an inordinate amount of salmon.

Summer is an invitation to expand, open our petals, and – like the bee – follow our nose hither and thither for a taste of everything.  Our lives are rich in feeling, sensation, sunshine, and good company.

And then the weather changes.

We look up into a darker sky, feeling the first raindrop or chill in the breeze.  The bbq invitations dry up, the paddleboards and kayaks go back into storage.  Patios begin to offer blankets and heating lamps. Our own petals begin to brown and drop away, revealing the skeletal branch system beneath.

Autumn.

The emerging beauty of the fall is stark, skeletal, clear. The sudden clarity of the air and bite of the cold is an invitation to slough off excess, prune back the extraneous, and reconnect to the core of who we are. By pausing and pulling in, we can consciously define who we are and what we want. Rather than explode rampantly into a million summertime distractions, we hone in, narrow down, and clarify what is most essential.

In our yoga practice, a summertime practice embodies flow, feeling, and lush sensuality.  Like the roses, this practice is a rich and nourishing affirmation of our vitality and expression.  However, sometimes this freedom – unchecked by structure and form – can become a method to avoiding the heart, the kernel, the sticky points.  When we freely move according to what always “feels good,” we can skirt challenges, avoid – if you will – eye to eye contact, and miss opening our dense and gnarled center.

An autumnal practice invites straight lines, clean energy, and direct movement. Rather than flow around the muscular obstacles that arise (stiffness, weakness), we narrow our focus and  direct ourselves into the heart of the challenge.  Head on, unflinching, we reclaim the length and strength that comes from structure and form.  As we hold ourselves to the standard, our essence is revealed.  When do we want to turn away?  When do we want to flit off rather than move through?

Embrace the autumnal invitation. Strip away distraction – both in your practice and in your life. Clear away the non-essential in order to expose the power and heart of your own essence. Concentrate your energy into the very bones of who you are and what you want.

Life practice:

• If you only had one goal for the next three months, what would it be?
• Can you narrow your focus down to what is most important to you?
• Clean the house, clear out the basement, de-clutter your closets. Pare down your schedule.
• Question:
  • What no longer reflects who you are?
  • What have you been holding onto that is more distracting than revealing?
  • What holds you back from letting it go? What do you gain if you do?

Yoga practice:

• Rather than flow around obstacles, move through the heart of the weakness, the stiffness, the restriction.  Mindfully channel your energy to stay.
• Give yourself time at the end of each practice to move your attention inwards, to refocus on you and your breath.
• As you leave your practice, take this quality of introspection into your interactions.

 “At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.” 
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Cezanne