Moonlight Walk
Last weekend, I took a walk in the moonlight across Camp Loucon—several walks, as a matter of fact, back and forth between the guest cabin where I was staying to the activities hall where summer staff hopefuls had gathered for interview weekend. The full moon was bright enough that I didn’t need a flashlight except for one tricky stretch marred by puddles along the lakeshore. Along they way, however, I did need to summon a bit of courage.
I like to think of myself as an enlightened person. I’ve been formally educated up through a master’s degree, after all. More importantly, I’ve been a life-long learner, intentionally curious and proudly open to change when the data suggests it’s advisable. I scoff at superstitions of every kind, from baseball to theater to still shadows on a cold spring night in the country.
Still, I have to admit that walking through that pine forest caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. As brightly as the moonlight lit the places where it fell, its very strength made the shadows seem all the darker. I had visions of haints stepping out from behind trees, of monsters rising from the still lake to block my path. If a spooked deer or a stray dog had come at me, I’m almost certain I would have screamed and run.
This fear—not exactly of the dark, but of what might be in the dark—seems to be hardwired into the reptilian portion of our brains. We all share it, to varying degrees. The trick is to not be overcome by it.
That’s easy enough to do in populated areas, where artificial lights give us the illusion of greater safety. Even in a relatively small town like the one where I’ve lived this past decade, there is a paucity of darkness. The town is sewn with street lights and motion lights and safety lights. Even the nature path along Dry Run Creek now glows with artificial lamps. In such an environment, the stars are mostly theoretical, and the brightest of the moon irrelevant.
Not so at camp. There is plenty of artificial light in the cabin areas and main buildings, to be sure. But they are not enough to block out the sky, nor to remove the need for what light it provides. I can and will carry a flashlight, especially on moonless or overcast nights. But I won’t use it unless I have to, because it will shine only on my path and make me blind to everything else. I’ve spent enough of my life in that state, both literally and metaphorically.
Over the weekend, my moonlight walks required me to overcome a few unpleasant emotions. I was never really at risk of more than a wet shoe or twisted ankle, however. My rational brain knew I was safe, and so I kept walking, reminding myself to take in the markings of the seasons—the smell of last fall’s leaves as they crunched beneath my feet, the sounds of night creatures promising spring’s near arrival. It was disciplined observation, and a gateway to hope.
I remember turning out the lights after my last band rehearsal with my students at the university where I used to work. I walked through the room in the dark, touching the different instruments, remembering all the students I had loved so much in the places on stage where they once stood. I knew I had done what was right, both in fighting the toxic environment that had grown up in the institution and in ultimately leaving it. But I could not see what was next for me—only that what lay ahead would be both dark and unfamiliar.
I still can’t see too far into the future, even when the light is good. On days when it dims, I wonder what in the world possessed me to choose this particular path. Last weekend’s moonlight walks served as a reminder. Sometimes, when you need it most, the universe lights the way.
Somewhere along the trail, it dawned on me that this would be my last time as a visitor to Loucon for what I hope is many years. Two weeks from now, when I again set foot on Kentucky soil, I will no longer be a guest, but a new resident. It will be a long time before I can truly feel at home again, if I ever do. But over time I will depend less and less on the moonlight. I will learn where the treeline is, and the lake, and the low places where puddles gather. I will walk those paths until I know more of them, until it takes less and less light to know where my feet will land next.
