By Lisa M. Belisle, MD, MPH
Originally published January 2007, Maine Sunday Telegram

We are living in a time of relative darkness. The sun enters our days languidly, strolling in just before we leave for work or school. No sooner have we welcomed his presence than he is gone again, trailing dusk behind. We catch ourselves longing for the days of high summer, when the sun held near-constant court. We are gladdened by the thought of the Winter Solstice, which brings with it the promise of lengthening days.

Many people experience inexplicable feelings of melancholy as the autumnal darkness seeps in. Patients express feelings of depression, and find that previously bearable symptoms seem less so. This is no surprise. Like plants, we humans have a basic need for the energy imparted by sunlight. What we sometimes forget, however, is that we are equally in need of the regeneration afforded by nightfall.

Part of this regeneration comes through associating with the aspects of our selves that seldom appear in the bright of day. Poet Robert Bly calls these our shadows. Contrary to what we might believe, our shadows are seldom bad or evil. They often represent things we don’t fully understand, or hesitate to acknowledge: our deepest fears, and our dearest hopes. We gain strength when we coax our shadows out of their hidden spaces to dance with our light-loving personas.

The external world also has a shadow self, which is no less stunning than her sunlit companion. A morning runner, I look forward to my quiet commune with the dawn—her gentle fingers beckoning me along the riverside paths I often chose. On my evening walks, previously familiar running landmarks emerge from a different cast. Branches that melt into the daylight offer stark contrast to the night sky. And the stars appear. Initially entangled in grasping tree tops, they break free over the fields, proudly solitary or gathered in companionable clusters. They admire themselves in the waters of Casco Bay as their mother moon stands silently by.

If we did not have the darkness, we could not see the stars. Likewise, we would not as readily recognize the light offered by our fellow man. On a recent nocturnal sojourn, my daughter and I found ourselves on a poorly illuminated stretch of road. At the far end was a solitary tree, brilliantly interwoven with a strand of seasonal red. Like the storied burning bush, it provided a landmark as we made our way home. It affirmed that we were not alone in the darkness. We had each other, and we had the holiday joy of others as manifested in streetside limbs alive with light.

By embracing the night as we do the day, we are both strengthened and enriched. We are reminded to nurture our internal shadows, and find wonder in the shadow presence of our external world. We observe things we might not otherwise. We also appreciate the sun all the more, and give thanks as the Winter Solstice ushers him back to the sky.