(dancing) in the dark

Recently I found out some facts regarding my marriage that I'd been in the dark about. It was a something that, at the time it was happening (what feels like a lifetime, but in fact just years ago), I didn't have the dark-night-of-the-soul vision goggles to know how to view and, subsequently, I spent a lot of time looking the other way as the suspicions took up residence in some dim room of my soul. Hell, most the time I could trick myself that that room didn't even exist. Noises from a deep, dark somewhere? I don't hear nuthin'.

As a kid, I don't remember being especially terrified of the dark because I always felt like someone was within shouting distance who would help me. As I grew into a teenager, I was actually more afraid of the light because I felt like if I flipped the switch and it was all illuminated, the person whom I wanted most to be there wouldn't be. But then in adulthood, I worked out a system where, with a trick of the light I could convince myself that whoever I needed was somewhere out there, just within the shadow. And I could handle skirting the shadows.

Except I couldn't. When everything went down with my marriage and I found myself responsible for opening up the curtains on my new future, the light shifted again. I didn't really fling open those curtains or air out that deep, dark room. I still entertained a willing blindness, because it was a view I'd become familiar with. Somewhere inside I ached for some light, but I couldn't quite find the switch. As it turned out, quite soon I'd find myself in a place where there was more illumination in the dark than I ever could have imagined. In fact, in that velvety darkness my inner sight would begin to slowly work it's way toward 20/20 vision with every breath and stretch and reach.


The first time I walked into the S studio, I stumbled right into a column. That's because it was so dark, like seriously hard to see your hand in front of your face dark. My stomach did a little somersault of nervousness. The only light came from a few standing lamps with cool red shades, some flickering electric candles (which at the time I thought were real wax, careful-not-to-knock-one-over things) and one eensy-weensy spotlight shining down from the ceiling track in the middle of the room. There were no windows to let light in, and there were no mirrors. Because I'd apparently left all my defenses in the dressing room along with most of my clothes, I sank onto a mat on the floor and went with it, slowly at first and then fully submerged, eyes closed. Damn it was nice here in the dark. As the hour went on, something dawned on me: This was that feeling I had had as a kid when I wasn't afraid of the dark because I knew if I cried out, someone would be there to help me. The darkness had never felt so good. A no-judgment zone where I'd never felt so supportively alone and also willingly invaded. And so filled with light.

These days I'm not looking to blind myself with a psychic klieg light, although it does feel like a premiere, a coming out of sorts, but I don't want to be in the (emotional) dark anymore. So now that I've helped rip the door clean off the hinges of that dark place in my soul, I feel like I'm finally ready to fix up that space, adjust the mood lighting and maybe put in a few comfy (lap-dance) chairs. And gawd knows I could use the extra room. I mean I live in New York City. Space is a premium.