Welcome to Dimly Lit
Introducing the December Collection: Adventus.
Originally published on Dimly Lit: A Writers’ Collective
“It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.” — Eleanor Roosevelt
Adventus
Have you ever experienced a room lit only with candles? I now understand the romantics who wrote of them dancing, flickering, trembling. I write this under the glow of seven small flames (and the harsh glow of my computer). The candles scattered around my apartment are enticing. When they sit in the periphery of my vision, my eyes can’t help but dart to them.
Despite my often trepidatious relationship with the Christian faith, last year I spiritually observed the forty days before Christmas, a season known as advent. Despite no background with the Orthodox faith, I practiced the Nativity Fast in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. Last year I joined out of solidarity with loved ones in Romania; I still lived stateside but was counting down the days until I moved to Valea Jiului.
The goal of the fast? To abstain from indulgence and to simplify daily practices. We don’t prepare vegan delicacies or virgin cocktails; most dinners consist of root vegetables and rice. By eating simple meals one instills more time in the day for reading, quiet, and contemplation.
In joining the practice [of advent], I feel more at peace in the uncertainty. Sometimes I even delight in that mystery.
This year my husband suggested a new addition: fasting from light. For forty days we’ve committed to only use candles in our house. From 6:00pm-8:00pm we allow lights for cooking, but outside that we rely on what the sun offers and what our candles can muster. My faith is hardly less touch-and-go than it was a year ago, but in joining the practice, I feel more at peace in the uncertainty. Sometimes I even delight in that mystery. I relish advent’s simplicity with all the anticipation its etymology implies.
Adventus translates to arrival, but the word advent ladles heavy undertones of preparation and waiting. It seems a smidge counter intuitive to think of waiting as an activity, but preparation turns waiting’s idle nature into an active verb that requires vigilance. Vigilance… as in vigil. As in a night spent holding candles in remembrance of a loved one. Of someone or something gone missing.
Preparation turns waiting’s idle nature into an active verb that requires vigilance.
But as Advent proceeds, I’m still unsure of what I misplaced. The reaching only happens in the silence and dark. What does my heart stretch toward? At 8:00pm I root around for the candles, the lighter. With both in possession, I restore the light switch to the off position. Somehow this physical search strikes me as holy, at least more holy than the beer or cookies toward which I’d usually reach at this hour. Lighting the candles gives action to what I still can’t place in words.
Picture the candle-lit service in which you almost lit your sister’s hair on fire while you drifted off to sleep. Think attentive. Think: the light must not go out, nor cause harm. I used to fall asleep, book in hand, with the lights on. Now I must put Annie Dillard aside before I drift. Before turning onto my side, I must blow out the candle. The action tells myself: it’s time to sleep. When I go to the kitchen, I must grab a candle. And while walking there I must watch my footing to make sure I don’t trip over computer cords or flooded laundry baskets. Intention. Precision. Preparedness. All these virtues amidst the 21st century earthliness of modern chores and technology. And amongst it all the key virtue: reverence. I take my time with the candle. To rush a flame guarantees its extinguishment. In its own time it arrives. In every moment before hand, it bears lights and deliverance. Writers reading this know the same philosophy rings true for their own work. And so a few days into Orthodox advent, I told a small group of writer’s that Dimly Lit was ready to launch.
The Collective
A single candle doesn’t light the entire way towards a destination, but it can pave a few steps ahead. Like the Christian proverb goes, “the light will shine in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.” Here, the light does not overcome the dark. But that same light will not be overcome by dark. Light shines amidst.
Even now the candles in my room shine, and boldly too. I find my vision again, pulled away from the computer’s harsh light. The flames beside me appear soft. When I run my finger through, it feels as if I’ve run it under a hot faucet–so long as I pass quickly. Though such a small flame, I recognize that if I knocked it over, chance it landed in the wrong spot, my home could set fire. However dim their light, it does not matter. They garner attention, they hold power. They are fragrant. Long after I blow them out, their scent and cinder lingers. I do not know what I’m reaching for. But I know the writers of Dimly Lit have accessed it in fragments.
No light (outside the s[u]n itself) can cast out night; however, a network of lights can pave the way for those walking its streets in darkness. For now I resolve to light amidst the dark.
Consider a light post for instance. A single light does not cover an entire street, let alone a neighborhood, nor a city. No light (outside the sun itself) can cast out night; however, a network of lights can pave the way for those walking its streets in darkness. For now I resolve to light amidst the dark.
I started dreaming of a writers’ collective just before Covid-19 hit Romania, where I lived at the time. It stemmed out of longing to reconnect with voices that had once fueled my own writing. I craved a domain where my fellow investigators of intersectionality could raise questions and share their narratives. Where we could tow the line of sacrosanct and apostate. I pictured a collection of works that together could illuminate broad spectrums.
As it stands Dimly Lit consists of six voices: some queer, some questioning, some townies, some expats, some religious, some spiritual, some ambivalent; all geared towards justice, though some burnt from politics; all in search of something more.
That place became Dimly Lit. It exists only because of the artists that have chosen to engage without any promise of payment or even readership. They said yes because they believed in DL’s mission: to illuminate narratives. As it stands Dimly Lit consists of six voices: some queer, some questioning, some townies, some expats, some religious, some spiritual, some ambivalent; all geared towards justice, though some burnt from politics; all in search of something more. But let’s acknowledge… as it stands Dimly Lit currently consists of six white, American, cisgender writers. There are many narratives we can’t cover with our current collaborative voice. We apologize for our narrow representation, and strive to cultivate a broader spectrum and champion more narratives.
Dimly Lit launches now in November of 2020. To set the scene: Winter sits at my door. Days near their shortest. The world continues to grapple with a pandemic. And here these writers gather: to trade muses, to dance around the same fires, and to see what conversations emerge. They gather not in spite but amidst all circumstances. Welcome to Dimly Lit. Before I leave you to the other writers, I give you this invitation as a sort of Dimly Lit benediction:
May each narrative you encounter here serve as a light wherever you sit. May they garner your attention. May you recognize their power. And long after you blow out their flame, when you return to the normalcies of the day: may their words’ scent and cinder still linger.
Shanley Smith–a resident of Holland, Michigan–serves as head-editor and the founder of Dimly Lit. In her leisure she enjoys climbing, reading nature-writing, and playing-to-win card games.
