Paddling in the Dark — Ageless Possibilities

“Go slow if you can. Slower. More slowly still. Friendly dark or fearsome, this is no place to break your neck by rushing, by running, by crashing into what you cannot see.”

— Jan Richardson

I often mention this journey we are on, paddling north - hitting rough waters, checking out tributaries, or moving forward with determined strokes. I had never given any thought to paddling in the dark. Night was always the time to pull to shore and seek shelter.

Recently I came across an essay titled Paddling in the Dark. Written by kayaking and mindfulness meditation guide, Kurt Hoelting, the essay describes a time when he led a group of kayakers on a late night paddle around an island in southeast Alaska. In the darkness of the eyes of his fellow kayakers, he could see the Milky Way above them and the bioluminescence below them each time they moved their paddles through the water. They were moving through the water, pushing back, letting go, light above, light below, moving forward, with just enough trust, courage, and good company to get back to their campsite. Paddling in the dark took on a new meaning as I read these words.

“As the warm glow of our campfire faded into the distance behind us, we entered a darkness that was filled with uncanny light. The Milky Way was fully deployed above us, and fully reflected in the calm immensity of the inland sea below us, so that it felt as if we were suspended in the middle of the stars, paddling through them. Then there was the phosphorescence. Light from the bioluminescence in the water exploded from each paddle stroke, and the wakes from our kayaks were made out of fire.…The forested edge of the island was a looming, ghostly shape that was just enough to keep us on a vague course of circumnavigation. Otherwise, each stroke was an act of blind faith, moving into a darkness laced with nothing but stars above and stars below. And then the northern lights kicked in . . .”

He writes that one member of the group, whose wife had recently died, told the story of the paddle that night as a metaphor not only for his own journey through grief but as a metaphor for how our lives actually are.

I will continue this in Hoelting’s words, as I cannot do justice to his reflections.

Hoelting continues: “The truth is that we don't ever really know where we are on our journey, and whether our personal journey will end today, tomorrow, or twenty years from now. We only know that it will end, surely and without a doubt. Our egos lead us into an endless war with that truth, and so we suffer. We suffer from our attempts to nail down our lives, to plan everything out into an illusory future that we think we can control. We suffer from our fruitless attempts to banish what we don't want from happening, and to hold on just as fruitlessly to what we merely want. The beginning of freedom happens when we recognize the fruitlessness of this battle against reality, and begin a new journey that accepts the necessity of letting go. Letting go of our need to control what we cannot control. Letting go of our need to know what is beyond knowing. Letting go of our need to always have things our own way, and opening instead simply to how things are in any given moment. What a relief! Yes, this takes bravery. We are left with nothing, strictly speaking, but our next paddle stroke in a darkness that only hints at the true shape and scope of our lives. But when we are truly able to let go in this way, and to trust that our next stroke will bring us where we need to go, a mysterious freedom and joy has room to emerge out of the apparent darkness of a life previously bound by fear and anxiety.”

So as we paddle north, remember that in the darkness, the sound of the water dripping off our paddles is accentuated. And stargazing from the water can be spectacular.

Here is a blessing from artist, writer, and ordained minister, Jan Richardson as you paddle in the dark.

A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark

Go slow
if you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.

Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.

I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.

But this is what
I can ask for you:

That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.

from Jan Richardson's blog, The Advent Door