I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Deborah Foster’s reflection and poem on the dark night experience.
I have attempted to describe stages of my contemplative experience with the emergence of the Dark Night. Over many years I became aware that a) This must be that Dark Night I keep hearing about; b) Will this ever end? c) It doesn’t, not for me at any rate, but keeps deepening and re-arranging my world view; d) Dark Night is a path that develops spiritual stamina, and e) infuses a subtle healing quality into everyday life and relationships.
Of Dark Nights and Regular Days
I
I hungered in need. You gave me bread,
some days cake and tea, some days feasts,
soul-light, and visions, songs filled with fire,
fountains of refreshing water and fine wine.
Breathing deep into my wounds and infirmities,
my despair found help in hope. Wind and sun
swept the landscape with love.
II
Bread becomes dry crumbs. Wine turns sour.
Water, wind, light, soul-songs, signs of You cease.
Tenacious hope transmutes; longing desiccates.
Silent night settles, suffocating. Faith falters,
fumbles footing. Confusion collides and cascades.
Ocean waves roll relentlessly through unremitting black;
Darkened deserts reveal no road signs nor paths.
Absence is everywhere. Dying this way is miserable.
Perhaps there are worse ends.
III
Is this now a suggestion of sunrise, or
are dark flames burning the horizon?
Is the darkness becoming bright and
night vision accepted as a daily thing?
Ocean depths offer seafood; currents
and tides carry flotsam somewhere.
Standing motionless in desert sands
discloses clues to a hidden destination.
Presence is entirety, everything, all.
IV
Buds bloom into light-petals; dust transforms into
droplets. Weeds grow wild in complex clusters
everywhere. Oceans and deserts are endlessly vast.
Mountains rise steeper, higher, peaks beyond sight.
Stamina strengthens, thirst quenches parched
throats; famine feeds a feast. Dying births life.
This morning gardening was glorious; hanging
laundry luminous, serving supper simply sacred.
V
I am hungry and thirsty again.
Night seems to be getting darker…
Raised on Canada’s west coast, Deborah Foster’s early years included skiing, canoeing, hiking and university. Disabling illness challenged this, deepening her contemplative spirituality and informing her writing of poetry, essays, stories. She has published in Authors Publish Poetry Anthology, Island Catholic News, various newsletters.
