Night Anglers

The approach of evening is an especially beautiful time of day on the lake. Even with the heavy heat, when late afternoon finally rolls over and gives up its claim on the day, there is a tangible sigh of relief from the woods and even the water. The air lifts, even if still thick with humidity, the lake relaxes and takes on a smooth silky sheen. The heavy yellow light of the day is replaced by the pale pinks, soft blues and lavenders slowly darkening to ink. Lately as I turn out my light at night, I can see across the cove to the spot where the night fishermen have anchored and set up, the glow from their lights burnishing the water around them with pearly blue luminescence. Drifting off to sleep watching the angler's lights, I sometimes hear the soft sound of their laughter across the water and I am reminded again about blessings of the night.

A friendly dark, whether you are outside or simply watching it arrive over the empty supper dishes, brings with it an invitation to cross over from our daylight lives away and pick up the more intimate parts of life with ourselves and others at home. In the deepening tones we are reminded the purpose of night is for rest and reflection. The shelter of the dark buffers our vulnerability and encourages us to say things to each other we might not have been able to in the harsher white brightness of the day's gaze. There comes an opportunity to stop doing so much and be still; to tuck children into bed and read to them, being available in the dark to hear their dreams and troubles; to curl up with loved ones or be with our friends; to tell secrets and share confidences. But perhaps the biggest gift is the dark's message that all the striving and seeking we have poured into the day, for better or worse, is over. We are done. It can never be taken back or remade. We can do more or better or less, but that must wait for another day. Now, the dark whispers, release yourself and rest.

I love the dark hours of my being.
My mind deepens into them.
There I can find, as in old letters,
the days of my life, already lived,
and held like a legend, and understood.
Rilke, Book of Hours, Love Poems to God