Out of the Dark

A quick heads up for any kid-lit writers out there, or anyone whose kids enjoy writing: my literary magazine for kids, Little Thoughts Press, just opened for submissions for our 10th issue and I am especially excited about our theme, An Ekphrasis Adventure. We had a brief submission window for artwork only and selected 10 pieces to feature in the issue, and we are now accepting stories and poems that are in response to, inspired by, or in conversation with those selected illustrations. We are pumped to see the variety of creative responses to these works of art, and also pumped to introduce young readers to ekphrastic writing and to highlight the power of visual art to spark imaginations. If you’re interested, you can see the selected artwork for this issue and find the submission guidelines here.

Thanks as always for reading and for all of your support!

My son’s birthday is this week and the recent mornings have greeted us with sunshine and a feeling of spring on its way. Our family needed this shift toward brightness and celebration. We spent much of the month holed up in our house fighting off illness, shivering from fever and the bitter cold outside. Our home was built in the 1840s, and though we love it for so many reasons, the ability to hold warmth is not one of its strengths.

My mind has been in a dark place so far this year, which is not really a surprise but has at times felt genuinely scary. I have been thinking, as I tend to do around this time, about plants and the cycle of seasons. The strength of a plant comes from its roots, from the part of it that pushes down through the cold, dark earth, unseen. This part, this anchor, is required before the plant can send its shoots upward to burst through the ground and bring us relief by heralding the coming of spring.

The daffodils in my garden are beginning to poke their green stems through the dirt. It’s a testament to how cold it was this winter that they are only now popping through. In the past few years, it has not been uncommon for a few of the daffodils to be on the verge of blooming at this point, for a few of the tulips to have already begun to push their way out of the ground in search of sunlight.

In the year when my son was born, I crawled on my hands and knees through the garden pulling weeds while in the throes of labor. It was a good position to be in to try to move things along (or so I was told. It made no difference. There was no moving things along in that labor, only powering through nonstop for hours on end for two days straight. The things we can endure continuously surprise me.) and it was 75 degrees outside, the sun warm and soothing against my bare arms.

This past weekend was very busy, full of events and gatherings.

It started with hosting a somewhat impromptu dinner for friends at our house on Saturday night. I sent out a text the prior evening that basically said, if you’re free, come on over for dinner and we’ll let the kids run wild together. We made a big pot of spaghetti and a salad and set the expectation that this was a very casual gathering. Too much noise and lots of people often leave me feeling overwhelmed, but after a month of being isolated thanks to our family’s nonstop illnesses, it was really nice for the house to feel crowded and cacophonous in this easy manner.

On Sunday morning, before extended family came over to eat pancakes topped with whipped cream and chocolate syrup as a small birthday celebration for our son, our little foursome first went to our synagogue to take part in inscribing a letter in the Torah. The synagogue is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year and they are transitioning to a new scroll. As part of that process, each family was invited to help fill in one letter on the scroll. While I followed our toddler around the sanctuary to keep him out of trouble and out of the way, my husband and son took in the whole experience and when he recounted it for me later, my son noted how cool and special it was for him to feel like he was connected to something so significant and much bigger than himself, something tied to both history and the future.

Later that night, thanks to a joint birthday gift from my parents (my son’s 8 this month and I turn 40 in April), my son and I went to see The Lion King musical. I had never seen it before. As the play started and the actors in their miraculous animal costumes made their way through the audience and up to the stage, I looked over at my son who was leaning forward in his seat, his eyes and smile as wide as I have ever seen them, and I started to cry. The opening of this show is breathtakingly beautiful and inspiring in its creativity and execution. When the song ended, my son leaned over, patted me on the knee, and said, “You’re gonna be okay, Mom, but man, yeah, that was amazing.”

On our way home from the play, nearly two hours after his normal bedtime, he noted how exhausted he was after this busy weekend. “But it was great,” he added. “This whole weekend was great.” I agreed; it was wonderful, this feeling of connection and community, this ability to be present for so much joy and beauty.

During the worst of my dark mood earlier this month, I confessed to my mom that I was worried about where my mind was taking me, and she told me that I was strong and I would be okay. I do not often feel like I am strong. A stronger person would less frequently find herself the victim of her own cratering mood, wouldn’t she? But then I think of the roots. The plant finding its own anchor in the dark so that it has the strength to bring itself up and out into the light.

In addition to my growing sense of worry, I also confessed to my mother that I’ve felt especially worthless lately. I wish I was better suited to be useful at this moment, to have some real skill or knowledge to offer. I know that I am not alone in this feeling. She pointed out that I am a mother and a writer, and that these are important roles, which was kind of her, but I admit that I struggled to see how either of these is particularly useful at this time. With a bit of self-reflection, though, I have come to realize that my worth right now extends from how much I care. How I care in concrete ways, not just for my children, but for everyone I love and for those I want to feel close to, how I knew in some innate way that I was not the only one who needed a reprieve, an evening of connection and easy joy, and chose to make that happen. And how I care in more abstract ways and connect with people well beyond my own circle by articulating in writing what is good and beautiful, directing attention to what deserves our consideration and appreciation, and speaking to the necessity of carefully observing the world and trying to make sense of our emotions and our lives. These are the things I feel called to do in my life. These are the things I feel called to write about. These are the things that help anchor me and allow me to move up and out of darkness.

This is not me saying go and find something beautiful because it will remind you that things are not as bad as they seem. I think things right now are probably even worse than they seem because the full effect of all this turmoil will take months and even years to be felt. We are still very much in a space where what happens next is difficult to predict.

This is me saying let something beautiful revive you. Whether it’s art, or community, or the small signs of spring slowly emerging. Let it remind you that there is so much worth holding onto in this life, so much worth fighting for.

Eight years ago this week, I was on my hands and knees in the garden trying my best to create space. Space for my baby to descend through the dark center of my body so that I could finally meet him. Space around the burgeoning daffodils so that their roots could further expand and their stems, leaves, and blossoms would continue to grow. Space for something beautiful to emerge into the world and demand my attention, my care.

Eight years later, this is the work I am still doing. This is the work I will do for the rest of my life.

You can find more of my writing & contact information at clairemtaylor.com. If you’d like to further support my work, please consider purchasing one of my books, or a copy of Little Thoughts Press. I also have a ko-fi page.