I never thought that one day I would declare my deep love for winter and its long, dark nights. For most of my life, I have been prone to SAD, the Seasonal Affective Disorder that we know as Winter depression. As soon as November loomed on the horizon, I would wobble in the declining light and wither under the weight of thick smog that presses down in the valleys. Much to my surprise, since arriving in Denmark, I have slowly become a fervent devotee of winter darkness. Could this be an unexpected gift of hygge?

On Bornholm, the Underjordiske – literally those who live under the earth – are an important feature of our local folklore. When asked, neighbours and longtime residents are more than happy to share the secret stories of the little people of the underworld. Sometimes they are cheeky and roguish, mischievously mocking our human affairs. Other times they are obliging and cooperative, skilfully tweaking our endeavours to align them with greater forces.

The more I listen to the chuckles of those bringing the stories alive, the more I am aware how much the landscape shapes our human experience and sense-making. Here there are no mountains inhabited by glorious gods, no laborious ascents to test our valour, no expansive horizons to broaden our perspectives. Here the land is blown flat by ferocious winds and the low, looming skies naturally orient us towards the shelter of the underworld nested in the dark. After years spent in solitary trails in the Alps, it would seem that the time has come for me to dive down into the hallowed dark of the underworld.

I am currently savouring John O’Donohue’s exquisite introduction to Celtic spirituality in Anam Cara.¹ Throughout the book he regularly draws our attention to the danger of what he calls ‘Neon Vision’, the aggressive light that we obsessively shine on our troubles to forcefully draw them out and dissect them under our psychological scalpels. To counteract our intrusive self-inquiries, he constantly reminds us to look into our heart, and search our mind, with the kindness and reverence of candlelight, because “The light in Celtic consciousness is a penumbral light” (p. 70).

John O’Donohue’s wisdom sheds ‘penumbral light’ on the unique curvature of my newly-found intimate relationship with the dark. His words of wisdom brighten the luminous solitude that arises when I open my heart to this experience. His light-filled words illuminate the compelling call I follow when I return to the timeless practice of resting in silence, stillness and solitude so as to harvest the riches of inner worlds reached by stepping sideways into the light.²

In the kindness and reverence of candlelight, I suddenly recognise that such practices need not be convoluted, nor require lengthy preparations and intense spiritual training before being admitted into the well-kept secret of hallowed darkness. Stepping sideways into the light can, and should be, utterly simple and innate. What’s more, the winters in harsh Northern landscapes offer glimpses of the world of the soul to those who consent to trawl the luminosity of hallowed darkness.

Therefore, in the name of radical simplification, I have designed a one-day contemplative retreat which, befitting a koan, is a desert experience in the winter darkness of Scandinavia.

I hope this inspires you to craft you own unique practice of stepping sideways into penumbral light, or that you feel called to join me on Bornholm for a crossing of the desert.

Your comments and observations on the art of thriving in winter darkness and hiding from the harsh neon light are very welcome below.