As a child I was afraid of the dark, as so many children are. Not the dark in and of itself, but what I was certain it contained: bad spirits, bad people, monsters with ill intent. The dark hid creatures with talons and teeth, or men with weapons who would use them to sneak up on an unsuspecting child and do them harm. The dark let curses slip out of buildings or hedges and attach to a child walking past. I kept myself bounded within the dome of torchlight on winter afternoons, thinking of light as a spell of protection. I went to bed by the orange glow of a nightlight, the hall light on and the door ajar.
I borrowed Jill Tomlinson’s book The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark from the library and fell in love with the baby barn owl, Plop. He thinks “dark is nasty” and won’t go hunting with his parents. He learns through others who love the dark that it can be exciting, kind, fun, necessary, wonderful, beautiful and super. I identified with Plop, but I wasn’t convinced about the wonderfulness of the dark.
