Yesterday's storm left us without power until late evening.  By now we know what to do: the Coleman lantern came out of storage in early Fall, its' batteries checked and back-ups bought, ready in the battery drawer; candles are lined up on their shelf in the laundry room ready to set out; and we are duly trained not to open the refrigerator - which will be covered in a blanket should the outage last more than 6 or 7 hours.   With a gas stove and no longer on a well, we are, at worst, inconvenienced by a power outage (although in really cold weather I long for a wood stove!)  When the smoke detector shrieked and the dog barked hysterically at 9:30 pm as the power re-engaged, we were already snuggled in our beds, sleeping, or reading with the book-light crucial to compulsive readers living in rural settings.

It is so clear that there is little else one can do in the dark when your electricity-dependent home is suddenly cut off from the source.  Oh, we could light kerosene lanterns, but for short term outages it is not worth the smell and residue. It took me years, though, to not feel that rush of  "I've got to fix this Now" energy that comes with an interruption of the norm. 

Reality is just that.  Here I am in the dark, perhaps not by choice but in the dark nonetheless.  I can light candles and lanterns, but the dark is still there.  And even when the electricity is functioning, still there is dark outside my little world of seeming control. 

Now and again I remember this: I make plans to sit quietly in the dark for a few moments every night, to test my existence perhaps, or ponder something beyond routine.  To allow the dark to speak to me however it will. 

But I forget, or fall asleep.  And the dark continues to be, as does the day, as do I.