For When Your Spark Burns Out
The poem that reminds me to accept wayward progress.
Ten years ago I wrote a poem about climbing out of rock bottom. Today, I stared at the white words etched into the black, notes-app background of my phone for the first time in a while.
Something struck me during my reread—it was the amount of gratitude I felt for my life, made possible by the pain from back then. Which, I admit, feels a bit twisted to reflect on. And while my brain is full of deeply appreciative thoughts, one day I’d love for my nervous system to agree with them.
In a room surrounded by people sipping drinks and looking at screens, I chewed on the lonely words from my former self.
The cafe where I sat felt surprisingly spacious, given that it was almost full. At a table along the wall, I fidgeted beside the floor-to-ceiling-length windows.
Through the glass, lavender stalks and lush maple trees wiggled and swayed. Watching them helped me slow down the rhythm of my breathing a bit. And after slurping my coffee, I slid the mug forward to make some room on the table. Then, I leaned in, elbows perched in front of me. Much better. Despite the screeching of chairs sliding backward and the low hum of muffled conversation, I felt a bit calmer.
Every few years or so, I reread the words of this poem.
Riding the long inhale—and short exhale—of attempted acceptance, I shifted in my seat. Crossing my left ankle over my right, I began scrolling.
The Pilot Light By Derek MacDonald I can't see through the darkness, so I listen hard instead. What it is I think I hear paints a picture in my head. The pilot light is out again. I should've seen it coming. I know the feeling all too well, when the pilot light goes out. It confirms I’m all alone. Alone in the darkness. I want to yell. To scream and bellow, to shout and reach for help. I don’t. The darkness shocks you but cripples me. It has a familiar smell that you can feel. One you see clearly, but don't remember. My eyes adjust to the memory. And my mind slows it down. The moment lasts so long— it's like watching the ball coming closer but never getting a chance to swing. I know the path downstairs and could walk it in the dark. But I flood myself with darkness before my body starts to swim. See, there's no compass. And I never swim the right way. So my feet kick for solid ground, but it's the rippling waves of my sheets that tell me I've hit bottom. "swimming is still progress" I know I have to— once I move, things'll feel better. And I know without them telling me, but they tell me anyway. It's all they can do... But they won’t tell me that part. The pilot light goes out a lot. When the pilot light goes out, so does the spark from my eyes. With it, the warmth from my smile, my touch and my voice. And the absence of sound feels like a night with no moon. A body built for survival, shuts off its extremities to protect its core. When the pilot light goes out, so does my ability to extend my arms. When the pilot light goes out, so does my ability to kick my feet. When the pilot light goes out, my heart and body slow. Life retreats into my mind, safely protected by opaque eyes. Careful not to tip off predators. When the pilot light goes out, I incoherently fumble through the darkness. Like a completely different person from when my spark is lit. The pilot and the iceberg— I am both, but almost never at the same time. I love being the pilot, and hate being different people. The worst thing a pilot can do is fall asleep at the helm. Alas, I'm not sleepy when I'm the pilot. No, I embody the iceberg, and spend most of my time floating. That is when I sleep— when sleeping's better than being awake. How could I ever be fully alert, whilst frozen in the ice? Frightened children are taught to find solace below safe cover of their beds. But if you escape into your dreams, where do you go once reality escapes, too? Why does my pilot light go out more than others? Is there a draft? Are there holes letting darkness in? I know how to patch a hole, but not how to build a new foundation. I am both day and night. But mostly, I am the sun. I burn brightest when setting the lapping crests ablaze. I taunt the depths below, that I can ride atop the waves. Until the pilot light goes out. The pilot light is out again, I should have seen it coming. I know the feeling all too well, when the pilot light goes out. An absent spark is excruciating. It feels completely numbing.
My phone had gone to sleep while I’d been lost in thought.
The background buzz of the other patrons around me returned and I unlocked the screen. While peering at my phone, my reach for compassion fell short as I’d finished reading the poem.
Honestly, I’d landed somewhere closer to resignation. I don’t know if I’d expected to feel this far removed from my own words. And it was then that I realized why I felt so conflicted: some part of me still wishes I could reach out and help my younger self. It bothers me that I can’t. And I’m well aware of how illogical it may seem. Because I have. I brought him here—to the life I created and now live, quite happily. And yet, I find myself trying to do more. As if that isn’t enough on its own.
Take writing, podcasting, and sharing my experiences, for example… those are ways I feel I can do something. Hopefully they reach someone else in need of feeling seen.
The problem with shielding yourself is that you trap your pain inside, with no way out.
I’m grateful to have learned so much in the ways of keeping my spark alive. Because it’s definitely an attainable skill. It can be learned, practiced, and improved upon. Just like desperation can be unlearned, too. Same with apathy. Those are temporary ways of soothing unmet wants and needs.
Ten years since penning those words, here I am reflecting on them. My life looks unrecognizable in the best way. Sitting in my local cafe, abundant natural light pouring through the glass, I’m grateful for the communal heartbeat of this place. And yet, through pursed lips, I find myself faced with a difficult realization: the version of me who wrote those words wouldn’t have accepted my help anyway. Even if I could defy physics to go back in time and give it, some things need to be lived to be understood. Like it or not.
But if I could offer anything, I think I’d try for a simple nudge: when your pilot light goes out, the best thing you can do is remind yourself it’s temporary. That you know how to rekindle your spark each and every time. And that you’re far more capable than you give yourself credit for.
onward.
P.S. If someone came to mind while reading, feel free to share this with them. That’s how you can help me grow this thing so we can keep doing it. I appreciate the support—it means a lot!
"It has a familiar smell
that you can feel."
Comfortable discomfort.
Love it. I think we all wish we could help our past selves but all we can do is help our present selves.