Wild Dark

Living in a town and surrounded by managed land, qualities of the wild can seem in short supply.

The squally rain on the corrugated roof lulled, then rose again. Why do I love that sound so much? It always brings relaxation to my muscles. A restorative, peaceful atmosphere. In ancient India, monks used the rainy season to go inwards, meditating in shelter. They still do this today. A rainy day - or night - is an excellent time for reflection.

It was 3am and I was navigating a wakeful couple of hours. I was exhausted after a series of tech problems impacting my online teaching sessions. Some of the issues appeared to be random; some caused by human error, meaning me! I could still feel the tension in my stomach and limbs. I'd collapsed into bed early, but now I was wide awake.

I could have become anxious over the loss of sleep - that vicious circle where anxiety over insomnia drives further insomnia. But something different unfolded. I found myself getting up. It was a stormy night and I headed to where the conservatory roof was giving voice to the downpour. Careful not to wake others, I made a cup of tea. I wrapped up and settled in to enjoy the wildness of the storm: the buffeting rain and howling wind. Living in a town and surrounded by managed land, qualities of the wild can seem in short supply. Yet wildness is necessary; sustaining. It is enlivening and at the same time peaceful.

Other than the weather, everything was calm and still. In these early hours, there would be no conversation; no calls or messages. It is not the time for ticking things off the 'to do' list. In practical terms, night time is a natural, effortless space of quiet.

Reflections eddied through me. For the most part I just listened; present to the dark. The night has its own magic, storm or not. The tension began to ebb out of my body. I was being reset. I remembered lines from the Japanese poet Ryokan. A 17th Century Zen Buddhist monk, he wrote of joining the village children in their games, or sharing a glass of Saki with a dear friend. But most of his poems celebrate the beauty of his simple, hermit life:

My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest; every year the green ivy grows longer.

No news of the affairs of men, only the occasional song of a woodcutter.

The sun shines and I mend my robe; when the moon comes out, I read Buddhist poems.

I have nothing to report, my friends.

If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing after so many things.

There is a never-ending list of things and achievements that I can chase after. As if anything meaningful must lie in the future, not the here-and-now. Taking this night-time break from 'chasing' was a tonic. Time to be. I have no desire to be a hermit, but I am glad such people lived to share their wisdom and contentment. It is refreshing to catch a flavour of life deep in the forest. That sense of wildness, both in the world around and within the human soul.

Do we need to live in a forest to experience wildness? Maybe not. Wildness manifests wherever we are. We can catch it in the way nature bursts forth between cracks in a wall. In the sudden anger of a child. In the inexplicable choices of the family cat. In the blackness of a blustery night.

After a while I began to yawn. I took myself back to bed and awoke later, refreshed. I'm glad that I sat in the conservatory to enjoy the wild night. It was a good choice over lying in a restless state, anxious about future tiredness. Tiredness that didn't happen - along with most of the other fears I have ever worried about.