Enter Darkness: January 2021 - 10days

Sarje Haynes

I arrive in mid-afternoon, while there is still a little light. Driving up into the woods, I marvel–as I always do–at the massive trees that define Oregon’s green landscape. Walking up the winding pathway to the center, I slow down to appreciate the beauty of this place. My support person greets me, showing me to the room I will be sleeping in–up a flight of stairs. My heart races a little as I consider that I’ll need to navigate them blindly, to use the restroom.

I’m given a basic rundown about the opportunities for meals–once in the morning, once in the evening–if I want them. I’m shown a method of orienting myself within the room by using a yoga mat on my floor. And I’m handed a small tealight, already burning its precious fuel down.

“It’ll burn for about three hours. You can blow it out or just let it die on its own.”

I begin to get oriented with the small, almost square, room. The walls are made of scratchy cedar panels. There’s a unique, vaguely musty smell to the place, of earth and wood smoke. The space normally features a wraparound corner view of the woods, but this has been thoroughly blocked out with custom-fitted, thick cardboard panels. I examine the doorways, also blocked of light, and the ingenious ventilation designed by one of the organizers here, to ensure access to fresh, outdoor air, without any exposure to light.

I try to carefully consider the placement of the yoga mat, about equidistant from the doors. One door, I used to enter the room, while the other leads to a small, shared, outside balcony. I am welcome to enjoy it during my stay. Anytime I choose to leave my room, I will use a foam-and-plastic blindfold called a Mindfold. It’s a surprisingly effective method to remain in darkness, even with my eyes open in daylight.

I practice walking back and forth from the bed to the door. Then I tread a few times from the door, down the stairs, to the shared bathing area. The retreat space is large enough for three sleepers at a time, and we all have our own unique trip to the facilities. I neglect to visit the shower area, beyond making a mental note of its location. This will prove a challenge, later!

Finally, I unpack some of my belongings. I lay out my sleeping bag and pillows on the basic, narrow twin bed. It’s smaller than my bed at home, and I worry a little that I might fall out of it. C’est la vie, I decide. It’s the attitude I’ve learned I must have. Such is life. I cannot control every possible circumstance or outcome.

Before arriving at the center, I had carefully rolled up my clothing into bundles, one for each day. I now stow the bundles onto a small shelf in the corner of the room. I also stow away a few small portions of dried fruit, nuts, and granola. And I have a few oranges and apples. I don’t intend on eating very much during my retreat. Generally speaking, hibernating animals don’t require many calories, as one’s metabolic rate slows.

On the window’s shelf, which serves as the bedside table, I arrange my liter water bottle, my travel mug (which will be filled with tea roughly anytime I request it from the supporter), and my notebook. I have read advice from others that you can keep notes in darkness, provided you mark your spot with a finger and give yourself space.

I prepare myself to descend into the darkness. I find myself thinking about Haruki Murakami, the popular Japanese novelist and essayist who wrote Norwegian Wood and The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, among many other titles. Murakami is fascinated with sleep and darkness. He often uses a motif of descending into small, dark spaces, such as dried-up wells. Such descent is typically followed by a transition in the characters’ lives. This is the type of descent I mean. I am isolating myself and going deeply into my own psyche.

What I find there will change my life.

to continue please visit: https://vocal.media/psyche/my-long-winter-s-nap