Take Back the Night and Dance Into the Light

Light is a metaphor for knowledge and hope. But in order to dance into the light, we need to learn to embrace the night. Natural light may be a wonderful thing, but the same cannot always be said for artificial electric light which is a visual expression of energy use. Humans are a primarily visual species, which is one reason why turning out the lights can be such a powerful experience in so many ways.

Author and speaker Michael Meade notes that witnessing the sunrise after the darkness of night is a metaphorical participation in the creation; creation, he says, is ongoing, not something that happened just in the past. Having lost the true night through electricity, most of us seldom or never experience this connection to creation in the fullest sense.

It is estimated that only 10% of the U.S. population can see an unobscured night sky. Air pollution is one of the reasons for this, but the biggest culprit is light. Light bleeds into our sky in two ways. A small proportion is "indirect upward light," reflected upwards from roads, pavement and buildings. The majority is "direct upward light," from poorly designed or installed light fittings that emit up to 50% of their light above the horizontal – allowing it to escape up into the sky. This is extremely wasteful of energy and fossil fuels as well as our tax dollars. And artificial lighting can have adverse effects on wildlife: misdirecting hatching sea turtles on beaches, confusing migrating songbirds, and disrupting the circadian rhythms of plants and trees - and humans.

           

For the first time in history, a large percentage of our planet can no longer appreciate one of the most beautiful parts of its heritage: dark skies. Light pollution, from over-used, poorly designed, and badly aimed lights from homes, businesses, highways, and all the other aspects of modern living, has deprived us of the "grandest free show in Nature." Satellite photos from space show a planet aglow with wasted light. Astronomers worldwide are joining the campaign for dark skies. The tenth anniversary of the inauguration of the Canary Islands Observatories was celebrated by a one-hour blackout ("put out a light, switch on a star"), publicized as "an opportunity to see the sky as it was seen by the aboriginal people of the islands."

           

Thus, turning out the lights is actually an opportunity to dance into the light – light of a metaphorical kind. We can all do our part to help take back the night. We can support planning policies that control lighting; encourage efficient and effective lighting; and protect unlit landscapes and countryside. We can encourage the recognition of light pollution as a statutory nuisance, similar to noise pollution. And we can make sure our own home lighting illuminates our house and yard - not the sky. Security lights, especially, are notorious for being overly bright and badly aimed, and studies show they do not decrease burglary.

Since the dawn of the human race, observing the night sky has inspired wonder, inspiration and motivation. The stars have shaped our religious beliefs, guided us across deserts and oceans, and led us on scientific quests. They have inspired us to build great pyramids and space probes. Always, they have given us something to reach for. The sight of our dark skies is as precious and as spectacular as our finest mountain views. It is an inheritance that all humans have a right to.

The light from the stars has traveled for thousands of years to reach our eyes. What a pity to miss it at the last instant of its journey. To quote the British Astronomical Society: “If all those who value the night sky can work together, our children and grandchildren will never have to ask us…

"WHAT WERE THE STARS?"

 * * * * * * 

A New Storyteller

"Tell me about light pollution,"

says the guy behind the counter at the print shop

as he opens my files.

"There's all this bad stuff, right?"

I can see that he is a representative human:

basically cheerful but

with that diagnostic streak of morbidity

that is a field mark of the human species ~
humans love looking at tragedy.

"Yeah there's some bad stuff," I tell him,

acknowledging his humanity.

"There are confused sea turtles

and disoriented insects. Disrupted biorhythms

and wasted energy and vanished stars.

But that's not what I talk about on stage."

"Really," he says. "What do you talk about?"

He looks at me expectantly

and in that moment,
there are no other customers in the shop.

"I've lived off the grid," I say.

"I've lived where the dark is so dense

you swim through it like liquid."

And I speak to him of candleglow

and lanterns and the soft blue hiss of gas lights.

Of the rhythm of sun and moon,

of going to bed early in the unbroken cradle of night

and waking, reborn,

at the first breath of dawn

with no alarm clock.

"Ahhhh," he sighs.

My favorite environmental event, I tell him,

is Earth Hour.

He gives me a blank look.

It's a global event, I tell him.

One night at the end of March,

turn out the lights for an hour.

Seattle's Space Needle winks out.

The Acropolis goes dark.

The Great Pyramids. The Eiffel Tower.

And tens of millions of homes.

All across the planet,

a rally for more efficient energy use

that does not involve using energy to get there.

You stay home.

You switch off and unplug.

Deceptively simple.

Ah but then the magic happens.

The subtle layers of awesome and wonder

begin to reveal.

His eyes grow wide as I rhapsodize about

the hush when the refrigerator is silenced.

About campfire gatherings and

guitar and drum voices and human voices and

the call of a tribal flute in the night.

Sparks merging with stars.

Eyes that see in the dark.

After an hour of darkness, I tell him,

those eyes cringe at the mere thought of electric lights.

You don't want to turn that

loud agonizing harshness back on.

A shift has taken place.

And you bathe by candlelight, slipping softly into sleep.

In the morning you wake like waking from a dream.

And you go back to life as usual only it's not quite the same...

You go back to life as usual.

But what if ~

What if, instead of once a year,

we had Earth hour every month, every week?

Could we reprogram our bodies, our selves,

into a softer but stronger way of life?

Could we rewrite ourselves

back into the magic

of a more sustainable story,

a legend where humans

once again experience creation

with every new dawn after a dark night?

We can - one human at a time.

As he hands me my printouts,

I see a new dawn whispering

in the eyes of this representative human

standing here with me.
We smile, because we both know.

He's going to be a great storyteller in the dark.