Vox Populi
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James Crews: Light and Dark
Half-awake, I lose myself in a pool
of late morning sun and leaf-shadows
flashing on the floor outside my bedroom,
what the Japanese call komorebi—light
and dark held in the same container
of a single moment, as we hold them in us,
learning to love equally a burst of joy
welling up like wind in the crowns of trees
and a sorrow that still weighs us down
like stones in the shoes, like swallowed clay.
Today, I stand here at the edge of both,
knowing that if I want to walk in the light
I’ll have to dance with the shadows too.
~
It can feel as if we carry two heartbeats within us—sorrow and joy, grace and grief always intertwining, falling into a common music we each must live by. I still recall the day that led to this poem, when I woke feeling exhausted with a pressing sense of overwhelm. I had taken on too much work, and was also trying to look after my mother from a distance, being sure she was taking her medication and receiving the care she needed each day. Her several illnesses kept growing worse, and now she was also grieving the loss of her own mother, who had died a month before. Every day during this difficult period become a dance between taking care of myself and tending others, trying to embrace my own joy, while also looking after the pain and needs of my loved ones and co-workers. One morning, having just stumbled from bed, I was stopped by a perfect square of light on the floor, the play of leaf-shadows against a backdrop of full sunshine. I had learned years before that the Japanese had a word for this phenomenon—komorebi—but had never witnessed such a striking example, and had certainly never given myself permission to feel the healing effects of just standing there in the warmth and flashing light.
I’d been lost in my worries about my mother, replaying hard conversations we’d had about her moving out of her small apartment, where she lived alone, and into a care home. I still hear her sobs on the other end of the phone when I asked her to consider this, and the words she kept repeating: “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Now that my mother is gone, I still feel the edginess and heartbreak of those days, of having to become the parent for her at an already crowded time in my life. Yet I can also still tap into the sensation of relief that came as I stepped into that pool of light and darkness both, the sun-warmed floor beneath my bare feet, the shadows playing across my body.
We all want to walk in the light, staying positive and loving, but our hearts by nature are containers for everything that arises in us. It took a quiet moment of komorebi for me to see the truth of this. If we can let ourselves welcome it all, following our joys, both large and small, and our sorrows, too, then we slip into what Thomas Merton once called the “hidden wholeness” at the center of our lives. We may not want to dance with the shadows that chase us, but refusing to do so now only ensures that they will burst to the surface later on. Perhaps the regular practice of pausing, as I did on that difficult day, can show us the authentic power of holding everything we feel at once, no matter how contradictory it might seem.
Invitation for Writing and Reflection: Think back to a time when you felt a burst of joy and sorrow in the same moment. How did the two seemingly opposed emotions coexist in you?
James Crews is the recipient of the Prairie Schooner Prize and Cowles Prize. His writing has been featured in The New York Times Magazine, The New Republic, Ploughshares, and Sun Magazine.
Copyright 2024 James Crews. From Unlocking the Heart: Writing for Courage and Self-compassion (Simon and Schuster, 2024)
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I think the first line of this poem is one of the most beautiful and true first lines I’ve ever read.
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Light and dark, joy and sorrow, leave it to James to capture the komorebi of the moment. The sun makes such a pattern on my living room wall most mornings which I always appreciate. Now I have a name for this beauty. Thank you dear James for another memorable poem.
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Light comes in my dining room window, reflects on the glass doors or a cabinet. Sometimes it paints rainbows above my little altar. Sometimes there are shadow of leaves and hummingbirds.
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beautiful image, Barbara.
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Jane McCafferty writes: Thanks for the Crews poem Michael ! Going to use it to teach today. … Vox is such a great service ! Jane
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Beautiful. A balm for our weary souls.
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yes, it is.
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Very beautiful. Soothing and enlightening, both. I just looked up komorebi and also felt nourished by images of sunlight through trees in forests, the dappling of light on the forest floor.
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So nice to hear from you again, Penelope!
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Thanks James Crews for the wisdom and beauty and the wonderful Japanese word, a perfect metaphor for all the “both-ands” we experience living as/in bodies.
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Oh, yes.
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How we all hold within us a blend of “komorebi” or, as the Italians called it “chiaroscuro” when describing what is lit and what is in the darkest corners in certain paintings. Think Caravaggio or Rembrandt or Vermeer. Some of us blessed with a lot of “chiar” (light) and other haunted by more “oscuro” (obscure or dark). It took me 50 years to be able and grateful to greet every dawn with joy…
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What a lovely analogy, Laure-Anne. Thank you.
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perfect, Sean. Thank you.
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I always feel more centered, gentle, and without urgency after reading a James Crews poem. Thank you dear friend for the reminder to love the shadowy parts of me I want to overlook.
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Thank you, Moudi. You have captured James’s gift perfectly.
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I love this poem and its wisdom. Thank you, James.
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Yes, thank you, James, for sharing your wisdom.
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A fabulous poem and statement James. You are another human lighthouse keeping vigil over all beauty and contingency of our kind. You are here by appointment of grace, here by our darkness, calling forth our “hidden wholeness.”
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Perfect, Sean. Thank you.
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