Like many in the UK right now, I’m cold and trying not to be wet. Thankfully, we have no flooding, thankfully we have no sudden loss of our home down a torrent. As ever, I can’t help but see the light. In this darkness, particularly in this wet darkness, I have the privilege to see reflections of light. Each one picks its place to land, touches a damp patch and multiplies the light around. I find it quite magical. If I take a millisecond of time, I leap into all sorts of connections between light and dark, the way we need the light to see the dark, the way we need the dark to know the light. Years ago, an art tutor said a technical truth which I take to be a fine metaphor - the lightest light is next to the darkest dark.
In these days when we are pushed to see darkness all around us, I reclaim my art tutor’s remark. I blend that with what I believe to be true of God and I find hope. In the significantly well defined variety of darkness around us, there is indeed the light of new governments, the light of new medication, the light of deeper relationships built across things and distance seemingly designed to divide us. The lightest light is next to the darkest dark.
Damp people from the painting Living Water, a residency piece from the United Reformed Church General Assembly in 2012