The Bright Sadness of Spring
On wonder, despair, and night-blooming flowers
About a month ago, I went to a birthday party for a friend in San Francisco, and the celebration centered on a painting reveal by the birthday girl.
It was everything I hoped birthday parties around here would be: homemade fermented beverages, spontaneous interpretative dances, impromtu piano performances. As we munched on cake, Julie told us about the recipients of the painting—the pain they’d been through, how she’d woven their story into the layers of the piece, and how she was inspired by night-blooming flowers.
Night-blooming flowers? I’m listening. If there is any way to get my attention, it is to mention night-blooming flowers. (Maybe I should put that on my Hinge profile?)
After the party, I did a deep dive into this phenomenon. Come to find out, there is an entire world of flowers that only blossom in the dark and an entire world of gardens that are best viewed by moonlight. Gardens filled with white petals to be tiptoed in as dusk falls and the moon rises? I’m smitten. Somewhere along the way, I found The Queen of the Night—a fragrant cactus that only blooms once a year, reaching full peak at midnight and wilting by sunrise.
Oh, the luscious poetry of it all. Behold the queen:
Isn’t she lovely? As I went in deeper, I couldn’t get enough. Although I’ve dabbled in a bit of botany nerding, I laughed at myself about the vigor of this curiosity. What was underneath the obsession?
And then I realized—in the last few years I’ve been desperate for words and images that capture holding sadness without being swallowed by despair and cynicism. In my writing, work with counseling clients, and witnessing the collective distress about the state of the world, the same questions keep echoing—how are we supposed to hold it all? What gets us to the other side?
This is new territory for me. By nature, I’m a sunshine girl—perky, perky, perky. You be happy so I can be happy and everyone is happy, clappy, here we go. Anger and sadness and any kind of dark emotion feel difficult, scary, sometimes dangerous. If a book or TV show gets too intense, I’ll read the ending or the summary to know what I’m in for. I know! I’m a sensitive little soul.
Much of the movement of my last years has been a quest to make space for the full spectrum of human experience, to sit with the darkness. As the fourth anniversary of the first pandemic lockdowns is upon us, I think of how quiet and small my life became that year compared to the year before. Even as I fought it and grieved my old life, there was a sense that there was goodness in the dark, in the mystery, in the alone. Would I let myself make friends with it?
Four years later, I’m still asking the question, still asking what gifts the darkness has for me. Once in awhile, I’m still surprised at the grief that bubbles up, sometimes out of nowhere. This has been a slow, painful unfurling, much like…night-blooming flowers.
As I sat and listened to Julie talk about the painting that night, one more petal loosened.
How beautiful—sometimes we need the darkness to bloom.
What about you? What’s gotten you through your dark times? I learned recently that Orthodox Christians called the season of Lent a “bright sadness,” and I’m carrying that with me too.
I’d love to hear from you.
Or connect with me on Instagram: @jackieknapp_
This is a beautiful post & a question I think of often. What I seem to come up with for myself is that in the darkness, I learn to accept myself exactly as I am & I learn bout grace. In doing that, I feel those things for others. Darkness keeps me open minded to the struggle of others. It’s what keeps me willing to help others and it helps me stay close to a higher power. I have spent much of my life running from pain & discomfort, but when I allow it to be there, even if briefly, I slow down & become more intentional.
I think that Beth Kaeb plants night blooming flowers. You should ask her about them 😊