Darkness

There are no streetlights around our house and very few cars travel our road at night. We are far enough away that there is no residual glow from the nearest town. I cannot tell if our garage door is open without turning on the light in the garage first.

It is dark.

I had never lived in an area without streetlights, and it’s not a question I considered when looking for a home. Why would I need to ask if there were any lights nearby? Aren’t those part of any housing development? Apparently not. I have wondered if a streetlight could be turned down—some were so bright I couldn’t help but feel like a spotlight was shining directly in our windows.

But there are no spotlights here, and the darkness is beautiful.

Late one night I woke to use the bathroom, and on my way looked out the sliding glass door in our master bedroom at a sky alive with more stars than I’d ever seen. I stepped outside onto our deck, slowly looking around while steadying myself against the railing. I could pick out some constellations and planets, but I’m sure it was only a small percentage of what was actually there. Cascading over our roof to the tree line was the Milky Way in remarkable clarity. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever experienced—a breathtaking canopy of tiny lights made visible only because of the darkness.