Night walk in the mist

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)

There it is again, the unexplainable urge to go out into the dark, to step away from the light. Today, some of it probably has its origin in the weather: the mist, covering the trees across the field with a thin veil when I first looked out to the west this morning, stayed with us all day. From time to time it lifted a little, but just when the planks of the deck had almost dried it gathered its folds again, got denser, and evolved into a thin drizzle.

To me, this is lovely weather, gentler even than a sunny summer day. So long has it been dry, and I am thankful for that because we needed sun and wind and low humidity to bring the crops in. Now, however, I feel my whole being open up to this moisture, a quiet presence that touches skin and hair with a loving hand.

This is what calls me outside after a late supper. I put on rubber boots and rain jacket, but push the hood back when I realize it is not really raining: I want to feel the droplets settle on my head and face, want it to cover me like a magic cloak. For the first few moments I cannot see my hand in front of my eyes. I debate if I should use the flashlight I brought, but by the time Leo has arrived at my side my eyes have got used to the dark, and I can make out the contours of the spruce trees lining the driveway. There are degrees of darkness, and the trees are much denser than the sky. The driveway and the road into which it turns glisten from the moisture, but are firm underfoot, not muddy and without puddles.

Leo and I walk in companionable silence for a few hundred meters north on the road. No car, no human being is out, only the faint hiss of the highway two miles over to the east provides some background noise. Here and there a few yard lights in the distance, muted by the fog, try in vain to illuminate the night. Not even the city to the south is more than a dim reddish glow.

I step under the trees at the side of the road and listen. The drizzle whispers quietly among the leaves, their glow, so glorious under a deep blue sky in the sun, gone now: this is a monochrome world, reduced to the bare essence of lighter and darker grey, a world bled of all colour.

A sudden breeze stirs the branches over me, sends droplets tumbling downward from the top leaves, joining others on their way down, gathering into drops that splash on the ground beside me, on my forehead, my hands. Just as suddenly the wind dies down, and again there is only a whisper, the rustle of leaves like a quiet conversation which I don’t understand, but feel invited to listen to anyway.

The dog pushes his head against my knee: it is time to go home, go back towards the light shining its welcome from the kitchen window.

I touch my hair: it is covered with tiny droplets. Like spindrift they will soon be gone, but they will leave my hair as this walk has left my heart: saturated and softened, grateful for this gift.