Plug in the bling
When I was a kid, I lived next door to a nursery that grew Ohio State carnations. In the winter, they sold evergreen trees raised on the lot behind my house. Every December, my dad, the dog, and all the kids embarked on an annual pilgrimage through our snow-covered backyard to find the perfect Christmas tree (sled, ax, and tie-down rope in tow).
Once the freshly cut tree was secured in its stand, out came the musty, timeworn boxes packed with ornaments, stockings, candles, and tangled strings of Christmas lights. Soon, all manner of bulbs, tinsel, ribbons, snowflakes, and stars dangled from the pungent branches of the ceremonial tree. The cobalt blue lights were reserved for our front yard display. We couldn’t wait till dark to light the candles and plug everything in.
This year, during my evening jogs, I’ve been tracking the trail of holiday lights in the neighborhood. A few maverick households leave their colorful bling plugged in year-round. But mostly, the spectacle begins after Daylight Savings Time signals the arrival of long winter nights. As soon as all the orange-coded autumn leftovers are 75% off, the shops dedicate prime real estate to feed our seemingly insatiable appetite for holiday bling. Witches, ghosts, and turkeys disappear, making way for over-the-top displays of inflatable yard decorations—Santas, elves, angels, grinches, holy families, candles, and pick-up trucks carting pine trees.
Like a moth drawn to the flame, lust for light must be embedded in my DNA. I don’t know what drives this gut-level fascination, but I’m bewitched by the mystery of sunsets, moonlight, and stars.
I’ve been writing a lot lately—I’m developing a new book about color literacy—and I’m working on a scene that takes place deep inside the belly of a cave. If you’ve ever been inside a cave with all the lights off (the park rangers did this with us on a childhood trip to Carlsbad Caverns), you will never forget what it feels like to experience total darkness. It’s paralyzing. Everything disappears; you can’t see your own hand in front of your face.
In every other situation I’ve been in, darkness is never complete. Even when we close our eyes, a little light still gets in. Day and night are life partners: one cannot exist without the other; they balance each other.
I think love of light and love of darkness really go hand in hand. As a star-gazer and confirmed night owl, I can testify to the generative potential of the wee hours, far away from the daily glare. This is the celestial moment for moonlight to shine, transforming the landscape with its magic. We might even catch a glimpse of the Milky Way, reminding us about the vast cosmic galaxy just outside the door.
A tour of the Christmas card aisle offers insight into the enduring romance of the darkness, with festive pictures of families gathered around the hearth. Inside, the fireplace radiates the promise of safety, comfort, and warmth. Outside, it’s snowy, cold, and dark—except for the dancing display of bling that’s slowly taking over the neighborhood. Somehow, this comforting, nocturnal glow even makes the twelve-foot-tall PVC teddy bear on the south side of Arcadia Avenue feel less ridiculous.