#34: The year the sun went dark
Living through the worst of times and the best of times
Hey friends,
Do you ever have those random facts that live rent-free in your head?
I woke up this morning thinking about something that happened more than 1,500 years ago - on the other side of the world from the one I live in now.
I haven’t read any books about it, I haven’t watched any TV shows on it. I didn’t even Google “the year the sun went dark” until a few days ago, when I sat down to write this post. Somehow, it just found its way off the dusty bookshelves in my mind and into my consciousness.
Still, while I didn’t intend to write about the year 536 CE, I can see how I’ve ended up here. Known as the year without a summer, 536 was, according to one medieval scholar, the worst year to be alive. Cool.
It all started with a volcanic eruption - most likely in Iceland, according to particles found in ice from a 2,000+-year-old glacier in Switzerland - which ultimately helped lead to the collapse of the Roman Empire.
There were droughts and other disasters; the sun not emerging for 18 months led to a mini Ice Age. Tree rings dating back that long show periods of stunted growth.
Quick aside: I love that we’re able to date trees back to a singular year. Technology is incredible. Terrible and terrifying, too - especially at the moment - but that’s a post for another day. And a good reminder that everything can be all things at once; good and bad. Terrific and terrible.
On that note, did you know the oldest official living tree is 4,855 years old?! Named Methuselah, the tree is somewhere in eastern California, but humans being…humans means that its precise location is a not-very-well kept secret. Because, of course.
Still, to go back to 563, when the world looked very different and the thought of dating trees was a very distant daydream, people would still manage to find pockets of joy and light in the gloom.
While we, as a species, are inclined to err towards the negative (a very successful survival technique that has got us this far), we still have an incredible capacity for joy and wonder.
We can hold both at the same time. We can live through the best of times and the worst of times.
Even though hindsight (or one historian) may say 536 was the worst year in history, people would still have been finding love, comfort, and warmth in the support of the community and their traditions and rituals of the time.
Without many of these remaining, now, when our worlds go dark, it can be much harder to find our way back to the warmth and the light.
I wonder if you have your own 536. I'm sure we all do.
Up until 2020, mine was 2011. I was 21 and in my final semester at university when one of my best friends died in a car crash.
I limped through the next few months, writing my entire thesis in a week, fuelled up on self-hatred, unsubstantiated survivor’s guilt - I’d been on the other side of the country, absorbed in my own shit, and we’d barely spoken in months - and Redbull. I spent days under the halogen lights of the climate-controlled library, where the hours and seasons all blended together.
It was one of the worst things I’ve ever written, although I was - and still am - fascinated by the topic: The International Community’s role and responsibility in humanitarian crises in North Korea.
Before Charlie died, I thought I’d join the UN. I was aiming big.
After, I couldn’t imagine putting on a suit or proper shoes.
All I wanted to do was get away.
So I did. Broke and broken, I hitchhiked nearly 1,500 km (932 miles) to the south of France to work the land for food and accommodation and heal my heart with wide open spaces, ancient trees, wild swimming, and home-grown everything.
I then hitchhiked back, and, unable to find any job, despite having a degree, speaking three languages, and having tons of work experience, spent the next six months pulling pints for students at the university to pay my rent.
It wasn’t quite the lofty heights I’d dreamed of.
The only solace I had was that recent graduates across the country were facing the same struggles. Just like the years after the volcano erupted in 536, the fallout from the 2008 GFC went on for years, leaving a barren wasteland in its wake.
I decided then that I didn’t really fancy being a part of society. It didn’t really seem to reward anyone apart from those at the top. I didn’t want to get a “career” job, buy a house, get married, or have kids and be a part of the machine. Everything just seemed a bit broken.
All I wanted to do was spend my days with my hands in the soil and the nights in community around a fire, sharing stories; our laughter carried on floating sparks up to the stars.
I couldn’t understand how we were all together here on this beautiful planet that gave us sustenance, shelter, sunlight, and everything we needed to survive, living tiny blink-of-an-eye lives (in the grand scheme of things), and yet no one seemed to be happy.
It felt like everyone was acting like they’d live forever and postponing joy and fun and magic in pursuit of the “bigger” goals. Most of which revolved around money and having “enough” to retire - eventually - but with no guarantee they'd ever get there. Especially with all the burning the candle at both ends, self-medicating, and struggles to overcome in the meantime.
And then, of course, there were others out there chopping down ancient trees; projecting their pain on to the world, because all of us are hurting and many of us don’t know what to do with it all.
I have a lot to say about this, but that choice to live a less conventional life is one that has served me well. Or at least it was - up until the next time the sun disappeared.
I wonder if 2020 is our collective 536; but instead of a volcanic eruption, there was a pandemic that sent everyone retreating into their homes, closed down the world as we knew it, isolating us and causing ripples across every aspect of our society that are still affecting everyone today.
For me, 2020 was also the year that knocked 2011 off the worst-year-yet top spot. 2021, 2022, and 2023 are all up there too.
2024, on the other hand, is starting to feel like 537, where the sun is finally starting to come out after 18 months of darkness.
Last week, I mentioned that my mum had just gone into respite care for a couple of weeks. It hasn't been an easy ride. My dad has had to face the reality that she didn't know who he was when he went to visit. She's declined a lot in recent months, but when you see someone every day, it's far harder to track the trajectory.
They’ve also already had to call two ambulances for her and she's just had to spend a night in hospital - but, as heartbreaking as it is, the truth is it's probably for the best that this is unfolding like this. The unravelling is never easy. It feels like we're all going through the worst kind of initiation possible. A portal through purgatory.
If she were with us like she used to be, she'd know that, too. She was a paediatric OT who dedicated her life to helping children - and helping parents make tough choices. She even met my dad when they were both working at a residential home for kids with epilepsy and severe learning difficulties.
She knew better than anyone - having grown up caring for a younger sister with disabilities and parents with complex trauma - that no one could do this alone.
None of us can.
Even those ancient trees couldn’t - and wouldn’t - have survived alone. Under the ground, there are unseen mycorrhizal networks weaving together tree roots, mycelium, and other organisms, sharing nutrients and carrying messages back and forth.
None of us exist in a vacuum. We all need a village.
If there's one thing these last few years have taught me, it's that we need each other. We need the Earth - probably more than she needs us. We need support networks.
And, if we can’t find them organically, we can pay for them, too. Just like we are with getting more support with my mum, and like I do when I employ the services of mentors, coaches, guides, and other experts to help me navigate tricky patches in my own personal and professional life.
While this journey with my mum is still very much ongoing - this latest trip to the hospital is a bit of a setback (and pretty shitty news to wake up to this morning) - it still feels like we’ve crossed a threshold and turned a corner. Like the responsibility isn't all on our shoulders, not anymore.
It feels weird to admit this as we're very much still in the midst of it all, but it also seems like some of that weight is finally lifting; as if the fog is clearing and the sun is slowly starting to poke back out.
Like it isn’t just me trying to hold up the sky and delay the inevitable anymore - standing there with a bulb trying to light up the world while it’s gone dark - but like there’s light at the end of the tunnel.
Light for all of us.
Even my mum.
Reflection questions:
Do you feel like you’re in a “light” year or a “dark” year at the moment?
Is there anything in particular in your life that feels very dark and shadowy?
Is there anywhere that is feeling especially light and bright?
If you imagine those places of light as a beacon, can you find a way to carry it into the darkness and shine it into the other areas that might need some brightness?
What is one tiny thing you can do to help bring more light into your life? If you're struggling, try writing a list of things that light you up. What’s something that always brings a smile to your face?
As always, if you feel like you’d like some support navigating the journey you’re on or to dive deeper into the river of life, you know where to find me. I’m currently swimming in the depths of narrative coaching and loving it. I’d even say it’s better than those sunset-tinted French lake swims circa 2011, which is certainly saying something.
Sending you all love,
Cx
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Note: this post was written as part of
’ 24 essays club.
'2024, on the other hand, is starting to feel like 537, where the sun is finally starting to come out after 18 months of darkness.' I am so glad of this, and that you are able to write about it when you are still in the middle of the returning of the light. So much of this resonated Xx
I totally relate to your idea of the sun going dark and was fascinated by what you dug up on 536CE. I recently wrote about my 2012 plunge into darkness (The Day My Life Tipped Upside Down). I've had other dark years when I was younger, but 2012/13 was the worst.
My Mum passed in 2022 after a few heart ravaging years. Supporting her was difficult during the pandemic. I'm glad you are finding support and community. Also, that you can focus on the small joys along the way. So important. 💕