 Midnight
Midnight only exists because we
humans can’t resist compartmentalizing the natural world and then
layering on the symbolism and adding in the rituals that help us make
believe we’re in control.
Midnight lets us turn a continuum
(the smooth inexorable rotation of the earth, the unceasing today)
into a discontinuity (yesterday versus tomorrow), It’s the
theoretical halfway point between sunset and sunrise – and therefore the
deepest dark, a scary time, but one that must be endured before dawn.
Sometimes we turn that scary time into a
place. The Catholic Church ritualized it in the sacrament of Penance,
especially in its old-fashioned form. When I was about 13, I passed along
a particularly juicy piece of gossip about a teacher, something sexual
that I didn’t know for a fact but that was delicious enough to tantalize
my best friend of the moment. Immediately I knew I’d committed the sin
of Slander – the worst in my life – and the days became a burden to
me. I knew even as a girl that dawn could not come without midnight. On a
Saturday afternoon, I trudged the three blocks from home to church,
rehearsing over and over the words I would use to confess my sin, wanting
to make sure that the priest had enough information to decide if it was a
venial or mortal sin and dispense absolution accordingly.
The Catholic confessional: midnight. The
church echoes of whispers and the opening and closing confession booth
panels, wood sliding on wood. The priest’s weary head nods toward me,
obscured by the varnished cane screen between us. “Bless me father for I
have sinned.” I state my sins. When I say I passed along gossip about
the teacher, he asks me what it was and when I tell him the dark sexual
suspicions he heaves a great
sigh. The clock strikes midnight in my soul. I launch into my Act of
Contrition: “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry…” He gives me my
penance, 5 Hail Marys and 2 Our Fathers and I leave the
unlit booth a new girl. The afternoon air is sweet and I gulp deep breaths
of it. Dawn. Yesterday is behind me and I’m full of tomorrows.
Confession ritualizes the dark transition from
yesterday to tomorrow, makes the night journey safe for us everyday people
who might otherwise spend our lives in a guilty twilight, terrified of the
dark, but unable to muster what it takes to get to the other side.
Religion gives us purification rituals.
Modern society gives us self-help books, therapy groups, diets, and
scolding from Dr. Laura (though clearly we’d all rather win the Lottery
instead).
The night journey is a helpful metaphor
for me. It’s life. To keep moving forward, to get from day to day you
have to endure the night. You can do without the self-help gurus and
infomercials and turn to world literature for a thousand role-models. (Or
you can listen to the Olympics where tales of scrappy athletes overcoming
hardship seem to command more attention than the events themselves.)
“The best way out is always through.”
[Robert Frost, A Servant to Servants, 1914]
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