I was laying in bed last night with my two-year-old daughter, Evie, trying to get her to go to sleep. She was laying on her back and looking up at the ceiling. “Talk to me about shadows and light, dad,” she said.
This wasn’t out of the blue. About a month ago, while trying to get her to take a nap, I gave her the basic run down on shadows and light: hard shadows, soft light, reflection, etc. She may have just been trying to stall, to delay her bedtime. I took the bait.
We talked about how the light was coming from the doorway instead of the window because it was night. We looked at the shadows the ceiling fan made. I demonstrated how the closer your hand gets to the headboard, the harder the shadow is. Then I demonstrated the same by creating a shadow on my face. She pulled her little hand under the covers and said, “Don’t make it dark on my hand.” I could see the fear in her eyes. The very real fear that darkness holds for a child.
As an adult, I don’t often consider darkness in this sense. I mean, I have a flashlight app on my iPhone.
LOST.
Anyone who has been truly lost can instantly remember the feeling. You may have felt it when I typed that word in bold just now.
Being lost and in complete darkness is not something I’ve ever experienced. I can’t relate to it at all. Which is why it is so easy to forget about lighthouses. Most of us don’t travel by sea, battle monster waves or yearn for a glimpse of light through the storm that could mean the difference between life and death. So, until we’re driving down the coast and spot one, or a sign telling us one exists, it’s easy to let them slip from our minds.
Then you turn on your blinker, park your car at the turnoff and hike it in. You walk into a world where pure darkness exists and is battled every minute. A world where brick is laid by hand and then whitewashed into place, and the steel staircase doesn’t need repairs for centuries, if ever. Where a lens manufactured in France makes its home, by way of the Panama Canal. A world where kids walk a mile through the forest each way to school, while you’re doing the most important mundane work that exists. Where constant attention must be paid to every dull detail, or lives can be lost. You bring light into darkness, direction to the disoriented; you work with your hands, and your day job means something.
If you’re lucky, you bring your a camera along. I brought my camera.
(click to enlarge)
Great post, Jake.
One time in college I went to meet some friends at a fairly remote mountain cabin. I drove alone and arrived much later than everyone else. I found where their cars were parked, but didn’t realize a hike was involved. I had never been to the cabin and had no flash light. They had all clearly hiked together with both lights and the cabin-owner who knew the way. Against my better judgment, I marched into the complete, snowy, mountainous, darkness. It wasn’t the longest hike of my life, but there were at least 20 solid minutes where I walked in darkness and pondered the world and my place in it. I had to calm my nerves like I never had before. I eventually found the cabin, but it was definitely an exercise in overcoming my fears.