Against the dying light.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright, [t]heir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. ~ Dillon Thomas
I should not have closed my eyes. In the abyss, all I find are dark clouds hanging overhead, blotting out any trace of the light behind it. Roars of thunder and cracks of lighting provide the bass. Howling winds and pellets of hail, the treble. Together, they form the storm that rages as millions are suffering and nothing except more loss awaits in a world of COVID-19. As I scan the sky, there is no end in sight to the line of dark clouds. No rays of light poking through.
Wait.
It appears I may have spoken too soon. Two brave clouds seem to have mustered the courage to part. Slowly, their separation reveals a single shining star hanging against a black backdrop, as if God pulled back the curtains to allow this single speck of brightness to step on stage. I can’t help but stare, in awe of its divine light. I almost forget the storm raging around me as the star’s beauty blankets my soul.
It reminds of that Jon Bellion song, Ungrateful Eyes: “All we want to know is where the stars come from, but do we ever stop? Ever stop to watch them shine?” Today, I stop.
Today, I watch how its light dazzles the universe and dances in darkness, jealous of how stars do not compete with each other as they hang in the night sky; they just shine. Each star’s light joining hands in rebellion against the night – slowly expanding light’s domain and illuminating what would otherwise be swallowed by nothingness.
Out of nowhere, a whisper. The source, unknown. But its message could not have been more clear: the same divine light that sits in the stars is within you. Each of us as science confirms, literally (see below), of the same stuff — carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen atoms — as stars. And like the stars, each of us with a unique role to play in painting the night sky. Each of us, the universe’s only chance to experience that special light we possess, the likes of which has never been. Nor ever will be. At this point, it feels as if the star is staring into my soul. So I decide to stare back.
And then, it winks. (Some might call it a twinkle.) A gesture I interpret as confirmation that the star is, in fact, staring.
I pause.
What if the stars are watching us for reminders on how to shine? Just sitting in the stands of the universe, watching us go about our business in the arena of life. Looking down at a dark, COVID-consumed Earth, awestruck by the glowing souls and sprinkles of light that are slowly blinking into existence all over the world. Yet simultaneously saddened by the sparks that have somehow fizzled and left an abyss in their absence.
I wonder: what do they see when they look at the piece of Earth I occupy? A bright spot in a dark time, lighting the clod of land upon which I creep? Or a person who has forgotten the light they possess?
The whisper returns, only this time it sounds a lot like Tolkien: “Some believe it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps that darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.” As my attention returns to my surroundings, I find the storm has subsided. Strange.
And then it starts. A warmth in my toes that slowly swims up through my legs and into my belly, where it floats for a second like butterflies, eventually swelling my chest and pushing up into my forehead. Ah, yes. There’s that light I forget that I possessed.
I turn my attention back to the star and thank it for reminding me of Dillon Thomas’ call to rage against the dying of the light.
To my surprise, it answered as if it knew the poem: how bright your deeds will dance. Fiat Lux.
Resources: National Geographic, We are Stardust–Literally, available at: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/news/2015/01/150128-big-bang-universe-supernova-astrophysics-health-space-ngbooktalk/