What Darkness Has To Offer

The other weekend, I took a desert road trip out to the Tucson Festival of Books. Bookpress Publishing, the publisher of my two co-authored children’s books (with astronauts Susan Kilrain and Al Worden) were celebrating the release of a new one — First Flight, a delightful tale by astronaut Hoot Gibson. It was a lovely opportunity to celebrate Hoot and his book with the team.

But I’d also noticed that author Christopher Cokinos would be there — an extra incentive for me to drive out. I had greatly enjoyed two books of his I have blogged about before ( here and here ), I’d spoken with him on a podcast — but we’d never met. It was wonderful to do so, as he was just as engaging a speaker as I’d imagined. I highly recommend his work.

It turned out Chris was sharing the stage with another author — Leigh Ann Henion, discussing her new book Night Magic.

Leigh Ann’s reading from her book about wonderful glowing plants and creatures of the night was hair-raisingly magical. But some phrases she said struck me more vividly than others. I’ve long been an advocate of dark skies — without it, astronomy is impossible. Light pollution is expensive, wasteful, and harmful to nature. But Leigh Ann reminded me of the poetry of darkness too.

I was terrified of the dark as a child. It took me years to get over it. I wish I’d had astronaut Chris Hadfield’s masterful book to help me back then. So I’m more attuned than many folks to the soothing velvety textures and peace of darkness that I (thankfully) absorbed around the age of twelve, sleeping outdoors deep in a dark forest on the Scottish borders (a story for another time, perhaps).

Leigh Ann talked about “working with darkness, instead of conquering it.”

She talked about thinking “not only about what light pollution harms, but also what darkness has to offer.”

And, most poignantly, she called darkness “a restorative balm for this burning world.”

It was a wonderful opportunity to reflect on what we fight for, as much as what we fight against. And that absence can be a presence too.

I’ll think about this again, I know, next time I am in some dark remote place, gazing at bright burning stars and the wash of the Milky Way.

(And if you know a child who has, or might have, night fears – please buy them Chris Hadfield’s book…)