When Y2K was coming,
preparing for it was like reliving the tension of my childhood but on steroids. I
knew all about needing a plan to stay safe in the face of impending doom. So I
canned 600 jars of jams, pickles, fruit and vegetables until my cold room
looked like a jewellery case with its row upon row of pretty coloured
glass. I also had six months worth of flour, sugar, salt plus canned goods,
matches and portable stove fuel. Finally there was an out of control happening
where I couldn't be caught off guard.
When January 1, 2000 arrived with business as usual, part of me
was disappointed. I saw it as a missed opportunity to gloat about how I had
outsmarted people who were stupidly living as if they were in no imminent danger.
All I had to show for my fanatical planning was a much smaller grocery bill for
the next six months.
I watched the countdown to December 31st this year with detachment
combined with occasional bouts of patting myself on the back that I wasn't like
those doom sayers My self- righteousness deflated like a popped balloon
when I bumped up, for what felt like the zillionth time, against my fear of not
being prepared for whatever might happen next, just a few days before the supposed
end of the world.
As part of an ecumenical class gearing up for the coming of light
we were asked to sit in complete darkness for ten minutes before lighting a
candle. Once I shut off the lamp in my office and stuffed the chinks of light
coming through the crevices I was left in a blackness that took me right back
to childhood. I strained to make out shapes of things in the room just as I did
as a child. Back then I would work myself up into such a state until I became
convinced that not only had the chair across the room moved but so had the
creepy person I imagined my clothes had morphed into as well. I couldn't even
run for help because I believed the Beagle Boys lived
under my bed and only came out of their trapdoor at night. No way was I going
to risk one of them reaching out to grab my ankle as they broke free from their
prison.
So when eerie images began to form as I sat in the dark a few
nights ago, I asked myself why was I scared of the dark. "Because in
the dark anything could happen and I won't see it coming." Not exactly
what I thought the darkness would reveal to me.
The tension between who I was as a child, who I am now, and who I
have yet to become feels taut in these moments as I`m catapulted back to being
a 9 year old girl with a vivid imagination in the dark.
When my Zen timer (oh, the irony) made its Buddha bowl sound I lit
my candle and it`s glow grew to illuminate a photo on my desk of my parents and
Dearest One. I felt comforted to be among people whose faces shine with love
for me. I didn't always feel that way.
My mother was the proverbial boogie man of my childhood. I never knew when she would morph into something as scary as the clothes on my chair in the dark, verbally, emotionally or physically lashing out with such randomness and without predictability. I could never figure out as a child if she loved me and I stood before her
closed bedroom door on many a Sunday morning trying to get up the nerve to
knock and ask timidly, "Do you love me?" I never got up the courage to go past raising my fist a hairbreadth`s away
from my parents` unfinished wooden door. It was a question that hung in the air for decades.
So I find there is a tension as well between the mother I grew up with and the one I have now and the unknown one I will have as she continues to age. The woman who I today, without a doubt, know loves me. The woman who was the source of my greatest fear as a child was the one who comforted me the most in the illuminated darkness this week.
If that isn't a sign of hope I don't know what is.
If that isn't a sign of hope I don't know what is.
