Saving Daylight
On Delusion, The Darkness and Gratitude
I celebrate this day when “Daylight Savings Time” ends. A reprieve from group-enforced, manmade delusion. An opportunity to keep time with the rhythms of the spheres instead of capitalism.
I know the usual complaints: it’s darker, it’s colder, there are fewer hours of sunlight. But all of this is true, anyway. You must have noticed the sun setting earlier, the mornings looming darker, even in the Savings days. The season of darkness has slowly crept up since June 21st. Oh, what we are willing to do to ignore the dark.
The darkness is—thanklessly—saving us. Nudging us that it is time to step away from the labor, time to eat, to rest, to cuddle and cozy, to dream, to gather the energy needed for another day. It cajoles us into wholeness by reminding us that light is more than striving and darkness is more than doom; that mystery and discovery and connection and rest round out our days.
Group-enforced, man-made delusions abound. Christianity in government terrifies and starves. Checks and balances weigh heavy on one side. People defend bilking billionaires by smearing the poor, even as wages stagnate and social services dry up. A freshly minted widow intimately paws the hair of somebody else’s husband. A president can afford to renovate the White House, bomb ships in the Caribbean, and threaten war in Nigeria after a month of government shut down. Our “free” country supports apartheid in Gaza and wants to be a sanctuary for Afrikaaners and looks blithely on as people are lynched, kidnapped, robbed of due process.
And through it all, some people call for my people’s civility and patience. Me? I can see the sun and the darkness. You can label the time 9 am instead of 8 am if you want to—I can see the shifts anyway. Policing my behavior instead of clocking the shift is…a choice.
Not my choice, though.
Gratitude
When despair clouds my hope (as it does now), I turn to gratitude as a lifeline. So, I want to share some thank-yous as a form of succor, and to remind you know that joy happens together. Our feet are poised on strong shoulders; our hands are held by dear ones, always. Individualism, after all, is a group-enforced delusion.
Thank you to Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes, for her work. I am working my way through Sacred Self-Care and it has been a balm. I just read her Substack about quitting church, and though I have not quit, I am sitting at home on this Sunday morning, grieving much.
Much gratitude to Cebo Campbell for writing Sky Full of Elephants. The novel named the ecstasy of being a (metaphorical) trumpet song lauded and enjoyed and seen, and speaks volumes about the love, healing, and audacious creativity of Black folk.
Similarly, Misbehaving at the Crossroads by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers had me talking back at the book, sometimes in commiseration, sometimes in grief, often in laughter. There is so much love in this group of essays, and so much righteous ire.
Black Book Bash has my honor and gratitude. Black Book Bash was an inaugural event devoted to Black authors, book influencers, and readers across multiple genres. I am still basking in the experience of such literary togetherness; the rich panel discussions; the legends who freely gave of their time and talent; the richness of Dr. Daniel Black’s every word, the gravitas of Bernice McFadden, the accessible scholarship of Dr. Michael Eric Dyson. I was so honored to thank ReShonda Tate for her historical novel on Hattie McDaniel in person. A gift.
But also, Black Book Bash Black Women—I am so grateful to you. Readers and influencers like Shalimar, Reece, Lorraine, Michelle, Jessica, Talia, who were kind to this shy introvert. Writers like Lorna Lewis and Rhonda McKnight, who were so normal even though they are so talented! My advocate, Sylvia Nixon, who interviewed me for my book, and promoted it with such ferocity that I was reduced to tears (I wish I could bottle and uncork her words). And dear, intrepid Casey and Latasha, who organized the event with their flesh, tears, money, time, along with Dr. Ian Smith—and truly curated a family reunion. What a beautiful event.
I am thankful for my husband, who is preaching through the book of Acts, and encouraging me toward the Holy Ghost instead of away from her. I adore the witness of Luke, how empowering his remembrances are to women and to Ethiopian eunuchs and gentiles and the peoples near and far. The books he wrote remind me that empire is not the end of the story, and that political violence as a response to generosity and inclusion is not new.
Who would I be without my cousin Joanne, who so vocally and demonstrably has loved me through life, and ignored my insecurities to speak to the arc of grace and power that is ours? She reminds me to wear the colors loudly, to love my beauty and my body, and to straighten my spine as I enter any room.
Ah, D’Angelo. Thank you for your creative genius, for leaving any scene that reduced you, for loving us through your music. I so wish that you grew old. The sun sets when it sets and I cannot stop time.
Thank you, reader, for travailing with my silences and bursts of writing. Perimenopause, writing projects, growing children, the open hatred legislated in this country—it’s stunning and overwhelming. I prioritize survival, and so I have been inconsistent here. You astonish and humble me every time you choose to read. Thank you. I know it’s hard out here for you, too.
We can hold hands in the dark.
Such a profound and prophetic take on "daylight saving time." Thank you!
I am Blessed and comforted by your Words