My job is not to talk about the light.

I woke up this morning and I did the first thing I do every morning…I reached for my phone.

And I saw in my inbox that there was another post about light. I contemplated not reading it, but like chips or pot, I find it really hard to say no if it’s in front of me so I read the post. It was well written and intelligent but instead of feeling inspired I felt…


Because I didn’t feel that way this morning.

I love light. My life’s mission is to be honest about darkness to shed more LIGHT but reading about how someone has so much light in their life and how to get light in my life didn’t help me. Instead, I felt disconnected.

What is wrong with me? I thought.

Why can’t I do this?

She can.

Does she wake up and feel the light all the time?

Am I rotten inside? Am I dead? Do I have a mental illness?


 But also I didn’t sleep well last night.

And I’ve got two kids.

And we might be moving.

And I’m working on my mind not controlling my heart.

And there’s a lot of energetic shit swirling around me that I can’t see that still affects my mood. And is it possible that maybe she’s only showing us one side of her story?

Maybe it’s her job to talk about the light.

But it’s not mine.

Funny enough, when I talk about this, my darkness, I feel better.

I’m sitting here, watching the rain fall, with a cup of coffee and bleary eyes from not sleeping well the night before and I feel anxious because there’s so much to do today and none of it includes making rent…

And then I thought of all the people out there who don’t sleep on the regular and how fucking tough it is for them.

How did they do it?

I felt buoyed up knowing, that if they’re out there too, heading off to try and have a day, feeling not perfect, in a car low on gas…I can do it too.

I watched the rain falling and I thought of all the Mums and Dads and hard workers heading out this morning who were not necessarily living a miraculous light filled life…but trying…to carve out an edge of time to do what they most like to do every once in a while, or maybe just have a shower, or maybe just get out of bed to make it to the couch because they have chronic pain, or maybe they’ve lost someone they love, or maybe they have seasonal affective disorder and I called “hey you guys! Hey out there!”

I waved at the lady trudging by on the sidewalk under my window.

She didn’t see me but that wasn’t the point.

In the limp wrist of my hand and the sip of my coffee, I felt a camaraderie.

It’s not all light. It’s actually dark half the time.

And saying that doesn’t make us bad or low vibration or lame.

Saying that makes me feel like I’m part of nature.

So I got the fuck up. I did some yoga which I now call “stretching to music I like” and I started to cry, and then I started to smile and I was smiling and crying and rolling around and thinking of all you out there doing your very best just trying…trying to keep on keeping on doing your very best even when it’s pitch black and you can’t see shit, let alone the stars that made us.

Light is great. But I’m not attracted to it. I’m attracted to pain and questions and fear and honesty and imperfections and what hurts and guts. That’s what makes me feel most connected, closest to you.

And it’s my job to talk about that.

Don’t get me wrong…dark-workers still like to Jazzercise….