Inspirations & Connections | III. Night
Dancing colours, a sharpening of sensations, changes, chances, and a tale of an owl who was afraid of the dark.
Community, and creating a sense of community, is so important to me, and to the world. In this series, taking a particular theme, I want to share with you some of the inspirations, connections and other communities which have enriched my life, in the hope that they may do the same for you too.
We live in a connected world where community is no longer merely centred on a particular geographical area. Communities can exist anywhere, even crossing oceans and timezones. Yet, I’m convinced that despite this, we crave deeper connections with others more than ever before. The connections and communities I find, continue to enrich and encircle my life, and I hope they might inspire you too.
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“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation”
So sings the Phantom of the Opera having lured Christine to his lair below the opera house. Night is bathed in mystery, intrigue, stillness, and just occasionally, a sense of apprehension. For most of us, night is the time without light, when our heads fall softly onto the pillow. A time for dreaming and for recharging our batteries, that we might awake, refreshed and renewed to the light.
Words from one of the collects in the Anglican service of Compline, or Night Prayer (in traditional language, of course), seem to so wonderfully encapsulate this:
‘protect us through the silent hours of this night,
so that we who are wearied
by the changes and chances of this fleeting world,
may repose upon thy eternal changelessness;’
But for may, night is busy, restless, and unrelenting. Anyone who has suffered the internal angst of insomnia will know how long each night becomes, as the clock ticks almost motionless, sluggish and taunting in its marking of the hours. There are many who work at night, often in places which are far from restful and refreshing.
As I have written many times before, I am a self-confessed night owl. I’ve always felt that those who work late into the evening and whose rest commences when many have already gone to bed, have been viewed with a slight feeling of condescendence. It took me many years to accept and embrace my night owl status, no doubt borne of childhood memories of Granny tapping away on her typewriter well past midnight.
One of my favourite childhood books was Jill Tomlinson’s The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark:
‘In fact he was exactly the same as every baby barn owl that has ever been - except for one thing. Plop was afraid of the dark. “You can’t be afraid of the dark”, said his mummy. “Owls are never afraid of the dark.” “This one is,” Plop said. “But owls are night birds,” she said. Plop looked down at his toes. “I don’t want to be a night bird,” he mumbled. “I want to be a day bird.” “You are what you are,” said Mrs Barn Owl firmly. “Yes, I know,” agreed Plop.’
Some of us are early birds, some of us night owls. Maybe, like Plop, you are a day owl?
We’re often asked to pick a favourite season, a question almost too impossible to ponder, yet I can, with some ease, choose my very favourite moment in the year. It is that short period in mid-summer, between around midnight and 3am, where just as the sun sets and the light fades in one direction, it rises and begins to illuminate the other. Somehow, in this short fragment of time, one day rolls seamlessly into another, night but a passing glance.
described this moment beautifully, like ‘the day lives on forever’. You can read more of Nadja’s beautiful writing here:
I also love the winter nights, when the cold air somehow brings a frigid stillness, magnifying every tiny sound. Think how silently the snow falls, as we strain our necks through open windows to find that treasure trove; the first few flakes descending below the soft, expectant beam of each streetlight. The church bells chime in the distance, marking each passing hour with a welcomingly relentless regularity.
Night is a world of its own, not just a thin slice of darkness between the hours of daylight. The night can be bright too, as we seek those things which will lighten our darkness. I wonder how many of you saw the Northern Lights a few weeks ago, suddenly and unexpectedly visible across most of the UK? To me, they were invisible to the naked eye, yet through the wonders of technology (waving your phone out of the window at nearly midnight), if only in a very amateur way, brought them to life.
Miraculously, the sky is lit brightly with dancing greens and purples, entirely other-worldly, magical, and mysterious. I opened this week’s post with a quote from ‘Music of the Night’, a song from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, The Phantom of the Opera, so it seems appropriate that I might close with Aurora, a tone poem composed by his father, William Lloyd Webber, an accomplished composer and organist in his own right:
From the mysterious and ethereal beginning, the colours grow stronger, illuminating the darkness of night, yet as fast as they came, they depart, their brief performance reaching its soft and gentle conclusion.
And if you were wondering about Plop, the self-confessed day owl, on the final page:
‘So they took off together in the moonlight, Mr and Mrs Barn Owl on each side and Plop in the middle. Plop - the night bird.’
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I had the same experience as you with the Northern Lights, David!
I always look forward to your articles, David – they bring such a wonderful, dreamy sense of nostalgia! I'm a musical theatre doctoral researcher so I adored the Phantom of the Opera reference. I'd also never heard Aurora before but it was an absolute delight to listen to – thank you so much for introducing it to us!