This post was written nearly two weeks ago, originally by hand. It was interesting to make sense of my chicken scratch writing and elaborate through typing where my hand couldn’t quite keep up with what my heart was trying to say. If my past and present tense don’t line up correctly it’s because of this.

I also basically wrote it (you guessed it) in the dark.

Today I showered in the dark.

Not on purpose (come on, now. Has anyone ever done this on purpose?)

But I highly recommend it. And I’m glad I did.

I’m at a yoga and meditation retreat with some forty or so other women. I don’t know the official count. I came with one who knows me better than I know myself. Upon arriving, I found I know others, too (sweet synchronicity). There are four of us in each tiny, straw-bale, rustic cabin. They don’t have their own bathrooms.

That means we’re all sharing the main retreat centre’s bathroom(s).

And that makes me uncomfortable.

That may sound strange to you, but hear me out; I’m naturally a very private, shy and anxious person.

I also really value my ‘me time’, and since becoming a wife and Mom, I find my daily rituals of getting ready in the morning and then getting ready for bed at night are sacred times I (try to) steal for just me. When I take my other hats off and for a short while, try to unwind, and untangle my essence from my roles that others depend on.

It’s conflicting because I’m not a fan of myself these days, or what I look like in a mirror, so as much as it’s an ‘escape’ to lock myself there, it also sometimes feels like punishment, too.

For a time I got so that it was a time of pampering and even ‘fun’. I’d regularly play music through my phone and dance with my earbuds in. It wasn’t drawn out, but it was stress relief.

As a child the bathroom was my safe place because it was the one place I was able to lock myself when I felt scared; when I was feeling attacked (usually just emotionally, but there were times I feared my safety, too). The door of the bathroom in my childhood home had holes in it, strategically covered with artwork on the outside. I learned to sleep curled up in a ball on a small rug, cupping my hands tightly over my ears and squeezing my eyes shut tight, or surrounded by damp towels in the tub.

This is also likely where I learned how to hold my breath to be as silent and invisible as possible.

I’ve been a shallow breather ever since.

Please, oh please, don’t mess with my bathroom time. It’s my sanctuary.

I was also an only child to a very busy woman who – for the most part – wished I wasn’t there. So, she acted like I wasn’t. We argued at times when I was a teen and twenty-something about me taking too much time in there (for years we only had the one) but I never had to share the space, or any other part of the house, with a sibling.

Or a father, at that.

Apart from my mom removing my bedroom door for a few months when I was around seventeen, I had a lot of privacy.

And I like it that way.

I’ve found ways to cope with the discomfort I feel when away in a new place where a bathroom is shared. I learned young when away with classmates on overnight trips, as early as eleven years old.

I get up extra early.

This is not something I do at home. I mean, I get up early to try to get ready ahead of Weston and start our day off as calmly as possible, but I’m a nighthawk by nature and would sleep in like a teenager every damn day if I could. Well today I got up at five. Hoping and banking on the fact that no one else would do the same.

Our cabin holds four twin beds, one small dresser, two small night stands, and our boots lined up at the door. There’s a bit of wiggle room, but it’s snug. It’s all we need.

It’s refreshing, actually.

Knowing my alarm was set for extra early, and that I would be navigating my way around in the pitch dark, I pre-prepared my bag for the next day. I packed my clean change of clothes, my towel, my toiletries, my book, my journal, my slippers, and my cozy blanket from home. I had it strategically ready and open, so that first thing the next day I could sneak my phone and water bottle in and head out and on my way.

I made sure my alarm was set to a very quiet volume, so as to disturb my cabin mates as little as possible. I made sure my coat and boots were handy. I went to bed.

It’s incredible how dark and quiet a small cabin in the middle of nowhere can be. I feared that my busy brain, that I so often walk in circles in, would keep me up all night.

I haven’t slept so soundly, or gone to bed so early, in a long time.

When my alarm went off I didn’t press snooze or drag out how long it took to get out of bed. At home it takes everything I have to muster the energy. Like I’m weighted down. Like I haven’t slept a wink.

Today I stretched, took a deep breath, and seized the day.

I was methodological, quiet and quick. Within a minute I was closing the cabin door behind me, facing a frigid and silent still-dark morning. Because I hadn’t turned on a light or perused my phone my eyes were still adjusted. I started the long trek through the freshly fallen snow toward the retreat centre. I took deep, cleansing and refreshing breaths. I marveled at the beauty of the snow path laid out before me, illuminating my way.

It was better than coffee (which I don’t even drink, but I imagine coffee drinkers would feel the same).

When I entered the retreat centre there were a few people already up, reading by the fire. Maybe they are just like me. They like to beat the rush. Get their bearings.

Maybe they couldn’t sleep.

Because there are no men at the retreat we have access to both bathrooms. I had used the men’s the night before, so that is where I went. Upon entering, the lights came on automatically. I had the space all to myself.

I always brush my teeth first. I’m a messy tooth-brusher and in my mind it makes more sense to shower off the inevitable and stubborn froth that forms around my mouth as I shower. I’m a routine based, self-diagnosed OCD person, OK?

Watching myself in the mirror it was like I was looking at a stranger. I saw myself through kind eyes. Gently observing my half-awake state. Appreciating the calm and the quiet.

It hit me how much I was appreciating the silence. We rarely get such a luxury in our busy lives. Between pets, kids, TVs, the hum of electronics, the sounds from outdoors. We are constantly inundated with some noise or another. I find when the power goes out at home it can be unnerving how silent things get.

That’s when the noises in my mind get turned up.

Here, I marveled at it. I recognized it and appreciated it. We agreed last night that we will have a ‘silent morning’ this morning. That we won’t talk until we’ve had our first yoga practice and it’s breakfast time. For many this will be a hard thing to do, surrounded by so many.

I know I won’t struggle with it at all.

Once my teeth were brushed I grabbed my towel and my face wash and hit the shower stall. The website had indicated that they supply unscented organic shampoo, conditioner and body wash. I appreciated having less to pack.

The water had barely reached a comfortable temperature when the lights turned off.

Pitch black is an understatement. Even if there was a window in the general vicinity (there wasn’t) it’s still pitch black outside.

My options flashed through my mind. Fumble to turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and exit the stall in order to re-activate the lights? Knowing I’m alone, and the whole place is wall to wall tile, rush out and back in naked and soaking wet, chancing that someone else might walk in at that exact moment (which inevitably would be my luck)?

But then it would just happen all over again.

My Initial reactions? Panic. Fear. Frustration. Claustrophobia.

Irritation.

The feelings felt uncomfortable at first, but they didn’t last.

I quickly decided to let them wash down the drain with yesterday.

I took a deep breath, trusted, and followed my instincts. I’d only done this a thousand times before.

My eyes adjusted just enough that I kept my bearings.

Then it was a brand new sensory experience. Every small stream of water was more than the team effort working to wake me up and make me feel like me again. Each separate stream was a massage. Hundreds of them rushing to stimulate my nerve endings.

They cleaned me. Warmed me. Touched me, separately.

I felt each and every one.

Even the tiles under my feet now had an effect on me.

They were basically the exact same tiles I stand on every day at home.

The same feeling I’ve never actually allowed myself to ‘feel’, fully.

How much of my life have I been so basked in light that I haven’t actually been feeling things? How long have I taken myself – and everything around me – for the face value? Seeing just the superficial parts?

The tiles under my feet (and the grout lines between them) massaged me.

I started to think of the woman at work who I’d just discussed reflexology with. I’ve never had a treatment myself, but I’ve heard great things. One thing I do know is that the nerve endings at the bottoms of our feet connect to the rest of our bodies. The bottoms of our feet deserve more respect, appreciation and attention. They deserve to be touched. Cared for. Pampered.

Today, in the dark, I was forced to feel things more intensely.

The dark can be scary. Uncomfortable. Unnerving.

You can lose your train of thought. Lose your way.

You can fumble. Things may take longer, and take more effort.

You have to be more present and self-aware.

And yet – for most of us – the dark is temporary. The dark is a phase we may not see as necessary.

But the dark times are.

Instead of resisting it; clamouring for light; insisting on illuminating; trust.

Trust that the sun will shine again. After a week or more of clouds and sleet, you’ll routinely help your sweet son open his blind in the morning and you’ll both feel blinded by the sunrise because you haven’t seen it for so long. You’ll both squint your eyes, giggle at the shock, and turn your face away, like it’s the first time the sun has ever reached your faces.

The days will get longer (they already are). It will be May again. The ground will thaw. You’ll be walking barefoot again in no time.

If we didn’t have darkness; if we didn’t have a long cold winter; would we properly, truly appreciate the light? The warmth? The spring?

The dark place you’ve fallen in to in your life will make sense eventually. Just don’t let it devour you entirely. Don’t listen to it when it urges you to give up. Hold on with your fingertips to the edge until they bleed if you have to.

You’ll get tired. It’s scary. It’s going to hurt.

But this, too, is part of your story; your process.

And then someone else will join you in the bathroom.

The lights – motion sensored – will come back on.

There’s your feet. There’s your skin.

There are your hands. The floor. The curtain and walls surrounding you.

They were always there but for a brief moment in time you weren’t seeing (or judging) them with your eyes. You felt them, instead. They existed as an essential, important and beautiful part of you and your morning ritual.

We’d all benefit from embracing the dark.

From seeing its gifts instead of cursing its limitations.

Seasons have their gifts. I often say I’d rather live where it’s eternally September weather.

But wouldn’t that make me numb to its gifts? Wouldn’t I take the light and the warmth, for granted?

We curse the seasons. The rain. The snow. The cold. The dark.

And yet spring never fails us. It has a track record and proven history of re-emerging. Often when we’ve been pushed to the brink and don’t think we can handle it anymore.

And summer – sweet, sweet summer – promises to return again, too.

– C. Mom