We humans have a deep, innate fear of the dark. We tend to feel more comfortable in the bright light of day that transparently reveals that which is around us, allowing us to assess and respond to people, situations, and things. There is something about the dark which adds the element of the ominous or disturbing. A screen door banging open repeatedly in daylight is a bother, needing to be closed tight lest the bugs get into the house. A screen door banging open repeatedly in the dead of night can leave us with our hearts banging out the same rhythm in our throats, tentatively tiptoeing towards it and taking deep, relieved breaths once it is safely closed and locked.

As adults we may have developed techniques for masking this fear. Children often exhibit it far closer to the surface. Parents can find themselves responding to anxious questions by checking under the bed or in the closet, making sure it is 'all clear' - of monsters and other manner of things that go 'bump in the night'. We place stones and crystals, or tuck teddy bears on the pillow or switch on the nightlight. All to alleviate the possibility of night terrors. Which never happen in the glow of the sun.

We like to see. We like to know. We like to have surety. That which is dark and that which is unknown leaves us feeling unsettled, uncertain and, often, afraid.

Certain ancient cultures account for dark times in their calendars. These intercalate days stood outside of the regular flow and structure of the calendar and tended to be approached with caution. The Mayan Haab calendar (one of 3 used to track time) consisted of 18 months of 20 days each plus one month of 5 days. This short month was called Wayeb after the Mayan God of Michief. It was a time when the portal between the worlds dissolved and was considered to be an unlucky time. The original Roman calendar, dating from around 750 BCE, consisted of 10 months (6 of 30 days and 4 of 31 days) beginning in March. Adding up to 304 days, the remaining 61 days which fell during the Winter months were unaccounted for and unnamed. They were the dark days before the planting cycle began once again.

With the festival of Samhain, we celebrate the dark and what it has to offer. We set aside the fears and open ourselves to connecting with ancestors and those beings of the Otherworld. We honour those we loved when they walked the earth, though they are now in a realm beyond our own familiar environs. With the tradition of Halloween trick-or-treating, we embrace the gifts contained in the Shadow. We take on the sheath of our deepest fear or our greatest hope and play at walking in that robe, at least for a time. Ghoul or zombie. Pirate or witch. One little kid I know dressed one year as a failed science experiment and another year as a tree! How fantastic is that!

But, once the costumes are packed away and the candy devoured, where are we left? How do we proceed through the rest of the dark days? The birth of the Sun is still a ways down the track of time. What can we learn from sitting in this time of dark as the next several weeks unfold?

There is a beautiful Tibetan word, 'bardo', which means 'transitional state'. It refers to any time which exists in the space or transition between two other known states. It is the gap or the portal. It is the moment between the inhale and the exhale. It is the moment of transition between life and death. It connects to both and yet is neither. I see it as this time of resting in the darkest cycle of the year before the Light returns once more.

This is the time of full potential. What is held in the dark is the possibility of the light. It is not movement nor is it actualization. It is all that that comes before we take the first step. It is the exploration of intention that lends purpose to the step when it comes.

It is a challenge in our culture to avoid stampeding into the time of Light immediately after Samhain. We already have the displays and the decorations and the festive trees all around us. But, commercialism aside, this may be yet another way in which we avoid the dark.

If instead, we allow ourselves to experience the bardo and sink fully into that gap of stillness, listening for the quietest message within that whispers to us in the dark, our movement into the Light will have a very different focus and energy. It allows us to start to touch the answer to that wonderful question: When all has been stripped away and I am left with the barest remnants, who am I? And who do I choose to become?

Though there may be the impulse to activity, take this time to seize whatever moments you may have over the next few weeks to rest in stillness. Sit in the dark and explore how that makes you feel. Become aware of the 'I am' that holds the pause between past and future. Transmute anything that may still linger of fear in you into anticipation.

Before we create, we dream. And dreaming happens so exquisitely in the dark.