Perception

Why are we afraid of the dark? By we, I mean humans. People. From a young age, we are thought that the absence of light is dangerous. We say, “Rebecca, it’s dark outside. You can ride your bike tomorrow,” or when the power goes out, we yell, “Stay still! You can’t see anything,” as if we haven’t lived in the same house for 15 years.

I have a theory. It’s a thought really. A whisper in the very dark we are taught to be wary of, but I had yet to really ponder it. Of course, the best ideas are tested, preferably where there is no light to tamper with the process.

I find myself walking alone quite often nowadays. It’s not that I don’t have loved ones to walk beside me, but ever since the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve found solace in isolation. Supposing it was a win for self-love to want to be alone for a while, I made it a habit to stroll around my neighborhood (donning my trusty Gryffindor facemask, of course) when I was feeling restless, or when the weight of the world was really working out my shoulders.

Being a woman, I typically wandered in the daytime, finding safety in the sunlight, comfort in the casual nods of the fellow wanderers. However, this one particular evening, after a mad case of scrolling paralysis on various social media platforms, I decided I needed to stroll. Making sure to grab all of the self-defense fixings (pepper spray necklace, dad-approved pocket knife, and keys for the fingers), I sent a quick text to someone so they knew where I was going, and then I began my journey into the darkness.

Well, it wasn’t completely dark. A myriad of colors painted the sky, all of which seemed to be using the last bit of light to dance with each other, a unique presentation to signify that they would soon unite, giving way to the lunar performer of the evening. It was truly my favorite time of day. The space between sun and moon shine was something I could resonate with.

I watched as the streetlamps lazily flickered on. They must be bored, I thought, beaming without anyone to illuminate. I made it a point to walk in the light, not only for their enjoyment but for my safety. I lived on the outskirts of the city, a community that held mostly new families with a speckling of apartments overstuffed with broke college students like me. So, it was quiet. I presumed people were either studying, eating, or trying to calm their children and/or themselves. Things, in all honesty, I should have been doing, but I was getting that pull again.

It started when the first quarantine was announced. I felt this need to go. I didn’t know where, or when, or how, but for some reason, I felt like I needed to shuffle the static. Maybe it was those fight or flight senses kicking in. However, this feeling made me want to do both. I just had no clue as to what I would be battling and where I would land. Over the course of the next few months, this feeling grew into a friend. I wasn’t afraid of it. In fact, it gave me a place to think.

I lived in the Silicon Valley, so mountains were never far. If I was feeling extra uneasy, I would drive to the beginning of a trail, and walk until I found some kind of ending. One day, I overheard a couple talking about a view of the city that sounded too tantalizing not to make tangible. When I found it, I seemed to find…and pause for dramatic effect here…a part of myself. Yes, corny. Cliché. BUT. Those exist for a reason and let me tell you when you discover that reason, in any situation…well, it’s like what I found in the dark.

I breached the top of the hill and smiled at what I discovered. I’ve met her several times before but never like this. I’ve seen her sigh through my tiny apartment window, glance from my rearview mirror, and even wink through the many corporate towers, but never here. Never this happy.

The moon grinned above the city, like a proud mother over her children. I let my back slide down a tree that was so perfectly placed, I had a suspicion it was designed especially for this moment. I sat with this feeling, ruminating on how my body responded. My chest untightened, my lips stayed widened, and my eyes…blurred. I didn’t wipe away the tears as they glided gracefully down my cheeks. I didn’t stop the sounds that came from my throat as the grace turned into shudders, a shaky conversation in which my body told me that I needed to let go. Of it all. Of the light.

I had seen so much over these past months. Death. Injustice. Apathy. Information poured into my skull, and it was a toxic liquid that seemed to burn any ounce of faith I had in humanity. But there, under the moonlight, I found myself, and myself alone, illuminated by the brightest light in the sky. It was there I realized an important misconception of the dark.

I am not afraid of the absence of light, but what happens when it’s gone. But the absence of color is just as dangerous. With too much light, you’re blinded, traipsing your surroundings as if you are amongst the very thing you tried to run away from. So, why run away? Fear of the unknown is only present until you get to know what you are not familiar with. Of course, there are some unknowns I would personally never like to know, such as being murdered in the moonlight under my favorite tree. Yes, my head has a summer home in the clouds, but I am practical about some things.

The time on my phone alluded to the thought poking at my insides. I needed to head home before it got any later. I began gathering my things when I heard a flutter to my left. Pausing, and really hoping that I wasn’t going to confront one of those unknowns, I turned cautiously until my eyes found the source.

I had never seen one up close before, but, of course, I was elated. Not only because I had dreamed of having an owl ever since a certain lightening-scarred boy came into my life, but because I always found these creatures to be ethereal. Given that it did not have the snowy complexion I was familiar with, I reasoned it was probably a barn owl. Common, yet so foreign to me.

Resisting the gen-z urge to take a picture, I walked away, smiling at the new thought that had sashayed into my brain. The day to an owl is the night to a human. It was a significant juxtaposition that had never occurred to me before. That the importance of time differed amongst species, yet we could still deeply resonate with each other. We all experience that in between.

Approaching my car, I prepared to face the light. But this time it felt different because, in this battle to understand myself, I had finally landed. Not in the dark or in the light, but to an understanding that neither is safer than the other. And both are vital to any human. And any owl.