Sovereignty in the Shadows

There’s something sacred about nightfall. Once the human noises from day-living quieten, fading into the onset of darkness, the nocturnal world slowly awakens. It’s a beautiful sweep of enigma, unfolding beneath the risen moon.

I feel most myself during these moonlit hours. There's an undeniable bond between the dark sky and me. Adorned with deep, velvety tones, it wraps itself around me, bathing me in stardust and moonlight. Within that wide stretch of openness above, a gleaming and clouded ocean of cosmos, indigo-blue and onyx-black, I become whole.

I belong here, in the night hours. The world of night accepts me openly, and I reward my independence by falling deeper into the dark embrace. It’s here, in my night garden, that I come to decompress from the day I’ve already lived. These are the hours when I meditate, communicate with the stars, and write. I do almost all of my writing from late afternoon into the starry nightfall, not stopping until dawn threatens to rise. My words are better at night. Freer, somehow. There’s a chaotic surge of words unraveling from my fingertips, spinning into each other and shaping constellations of musings. And maybe there’s a poem too.

I’ve always been this way. As you can imagine, it hasn’t been easy, especially when I was a child. Unintentionally—and most regrettably—I’ve always been out of sync with the preset of societal norms. Naturally, I understand the necessity of daytime, but I’ve always gravitated to the darker hours, the unsociable hours, and yes, the bewitching hours.

Once the owl hoots and calls from the darkened branches of treetops, a thrill erupts inside of me. In this realm, there’s no rush, no expectations, and no obligations. There’s no responsibility beyond oneself. There's only stillness; a permission to exist in simplicity and solitude, to dream, to create, and to find my center. If I had to label the overall feeling that comes when day surrenders to night, it would be sovereignty—a quiet liberation that encourages me to meet myself exactly where I am.

The kingdom of night is mesmeric. A hypnotic whisper cast upon unveiled constellations and moonshine. An entrancing atmosphere alive with meteors and the Northern Lights, creating a timeless ambience where shadows lengthen with folklore. The night is reserved for dreamers like me. It’s where our stories are born. When I’m sitting on my night-washed deck, amid the nocturnal animals who stir and scurry, I often wonder how many other night owls are outside, too. Are they also posed like me? Fashioned with their heads tilted towards the great above, contemplating life. Maybe there are more of us alike than we know.

I've often considered nightfall as a looking-glass; it’s for our consciousness to access the beauty and magic that’s present. And what about tonight? Tonight, sovereignty arrives in the west of the sky, where several lone stars are scattered wide. There’s the croaking of frogs and the humming of crickets, the sweetest smell of night blooms from my flowering urn, the crunching of dead leaves as a mother possum and her babies make their way to the water bowl, and, of course, the hooting from my garden owl. In truth, the night and all its creatures may be the greatest friends I’ve ever known.