Dark Storm, Dark Night

Time has shifted. Times have changed. The world is not the same. And yet, still, there can be a returning. It's not that I haven't had the taste of a lad's company at all in this time, it's just that for so long the soul of it all seemed to be ... missing. 

A while back now, a friend of mine happened to meet a new fellow. This was a lad I knew of and had tried to cross paths with, but to no avail. My friend, knowing how much I longed to meet this particular lad, took measures to make it possible. And so I came one evening to find myself alone with my beloved's brother - Dark Storm.

We spoke briefly, this elusive lad and I, and I was intrigued. He stayed with me for a time, but I didn't have the space to really sit down and get to know him. At least not until now.

What was different? What shifted on this singular evening to open the invitation into a deeper intimacy with a lad who had been around for months and months? I'm not sure if I can say. Maybe it was the moon or the stars, maybe it was a divine calling I finally could hear, or maybe it was simply the muse - deciding on just a whim - that tonight would be the night.

But there is a fine, faded line between the muse's call and the divine's. I'm not entirely convinced they are not one in the same. St. John the Baptist wrote a poem hundreds of years ago about the call of the divine and the hidden way it works in a soul. It has been called the Dark Night of the Soul. Loreena McKennitt lent to this poem the haunting beauty of her voice and so I offer it here: if you are lost, in a dark place, or simply craving the inspiration and passion you know life must hold for you somewhere - light a candle, pour a dram, and listen to this story... 

Whatever the cause, there was no denying what my senses were telling me - that this night was special. And I felt a deep drive to protect the sacredness that seemed to be shimmering on the edges of my awareness. There has been so much heartache and confusion lately and to trust in the hope of something different was simply terrifying. My eyes closed, wanting to blur the harsh truth of reality into the gentler truth of the heart - which sometimes is more painful in its poignancy.

And yes, something was different - but only for the sake of time. Because as I sat, with candle, music, and a fiery dram of a lad in hand, breathing the scent of him in gently - one word floated to the top of my mind ... homecoming. And soon to follow was a sense of welcoming - a warmth, love, and memories. 

I spent long moments exploring his nose. It reminded me of Storm's smoke. But unlike a roaring blaze, Dark Storm brought to mind instead the potent tendrils rising from red-hot embers, and the afterglow of a night well-lived. 

Scent of a smokehouse and peppery sea spray mingled with hints of apple and a touch of sour. 

I realized I was feeling shy. I took my time before bringing my lips to the glass. Had it been too long? There was magic here once and I had forsaken it, unconsciously. How could I know if my return would be welcome? 

There is sometimes a resistance to returning - even when we know we want to, we need to. Perhaps it's the underlying fear that we'll once again have to leave that which we love. 

But with my first small sip, the chill in the winter's air warmed in my glass immediately, and I found myself smiling and trusting - such a forgotten feeling. 

Dark storm had a buttery, shallow flavor at first. But as we spoke, I realized there was more to him. A whiff of ash here, a sense of sea salt there. After adding a bit of water, he showed me his sweet side, softening a bit and becoming playful and fruity. He had all the layers of complexity of his fairer brother's. But there was something else.

As the conversation continued, I discovered a hint of bitterness in his demeanor. At one time, this would have turned me off. But now, in these times, after these days, understanding gathers up discomfort like a nest. And I have learned that bitter notes often don't mean what I think. There is something nourishing and healthy within the bitter, just as there is within the darkness.

Perhaps it is the rich truth of deep authenticity - which can be a balm for the heart's pangs of poignancy. Dark Storm spoke to me of imperfections integrated, saying yes, this is where my fault lines lie. I neither wallow in them nor gloss them over. Take me as you will. 

There is power in returning. We can find it in traditions, rituals, ceremonies. And in the way our hearts resist. I suspect that sometimes it's not the fear of having to leave again that gives us pause, but the deep knowledge that truly, once we return, we will never at all be able to leave again.