Of all the kinds of darkness there are — like 5 p.m. winter dark that presses too closely at my kitchen window while I’m making dinner or the experience these days of living through an oppressive time — my favorite darkness is that of pre-dawn. On days like this one, that means pre-pre-dawn. It’s 4:50 a.m. now but I’ve been up since 3, and not unhappily so, though even for me, that’s a bit early; I’ll be tired later. Since I’ve been self-employed all of my adult life, I’ve had some discretion over my working hours, and in the last many years, I’ve begun to teach only in the mornings because waking this early means I need to put my feet up by early afternoon, and I’m ready to tuck myself into bed by 8:30 p.m.

Apparently, about five people in 300 are like this, and there’s a name for it: “advanced sleep phase.” It turns out, being such early risers is genetic. I used to think it was his work that caused my father keep the hours he did, and that contributed to it, but it may have also been his nature to enjoy going out for donuts with friends at 4 a.m. Oh, dear, maybe I’m more like my dad than I realized.

When I wake in the very early hours, there’s a sense of mystery and magic in the air. It’s a private time — nobody’s going to ask me to do anything, except the cats begging for breakfast, and before the outside world can make its mark on me is the best time to write. My thoughts are freer, more daring and expansive, so I can say anything, no matter how outrageous or silly, and that’s what makes the best writing possible. The predawn darkness, unlike midnight’s black, is a cocoon; it holds me safe with the promise of coming light.

Ever since I traded my clip-in bike shoes for hiking boots and began taking long walks, the one thing I’d not done, but really wanted to, was to walk in the dark. As much as I love walking alone, I’m uncomfortable doing so without the light. My feeling of being vulnerable, and not just at night, grew exponentially after the current president took office because he and some in his cabinet have legitimized violence against women. As a result, taking a night walk became even less possible. And now, the murder of Renee Good has made every woman in this country more vulnerable. Not only did the ICE agent murder Good for absolutely no reason, but by denying the truth of the agent’s action, our government has sanctioned it, making all of us unsafe

Less possible, that is, until I thought of my friend, fellow walker, Angelica Glass. You may have heard of her — she documented her experience of walking every Santa Cruz County street, and her book about that experience is coming out in the summer. My favorite kind of people, and I’m not always one of them, are those who say yes quickly, without reservation, even before knowing all the details. That’s how Angelica responded to my invitation.

Since Angelica lives in Santa Cruz and I’m in Del Rey Oaks, Moss Landing is a roughly midway location. We met in the same place that I’d walked with another friend in January of 2025, shortly after the then-new government had begun to form, and much of that walk was spent wiping tears from our cheeks. I was curious to chat with Angelica about having lived through this difficult year. But first, we had to find each other in the dark! Like me, she was early. It was the familiarity of her voice that calmed my racing heart at hearing the crunch of someone else’s boots at the Salinas River State Beach Sandholt parking area. (https://mosslandingharbor.dst.ca.us/salinas-river-state-beach)

Pretty much blindly, we took to the trail, heading south, with the waterway leading to the ocean on our left. Nobody else was out, and that was just how we liked it, especially since we’d not walked together in a long time. The chill night breeze on our faces was refreshing. We talked about where we were walking, about what we couldn’t see and about our personal lives. Angelica’s retirement helped make writing her book possible, while my non-retirement helps make my life possible. And, yes, we talked about what it’s like to be living now. How could we not attend to the difficult reality? Angelica and I are among the fortunate ones — so far, anyway — two older, white, non-immigrant women who have partners, homes, and health insurance, whose lives have not personally been impacted by our government’s devastations that are ruining the lives of many others. But the weight of the pain of those we know and don’t know is upon us both; it’s not something either of us ignore, and nor is our fury.

There’s something I learned over the past year that, as we begin this new year, is worth sharing. For the first many months of 2025, joy fled my life; it had been trampled on. Fear and despair set up house in my mind, heart, and body. My ability to be a viable member of my community got thwarted. Over those many difficult, sunken-feeling months, I discovered that by losing my joy, by caving in to anxiety and sorrow, I was simultaneously forfeiting my personal power and light-heartedness, and unintentionally supporting the regime that wants just that — it is easier to control those who are passive. Through speaking the truth in many ways — writing this column, talking before my city council, teaching poetry in Monterey County high schools and through Cal State Monterey Bay’s Osher Lifelong Learning Program, volunteering for a mental health podcast, putting on a benefit for a health center, making art and working on other writing, loving and welcoming love, and being in nature, joy began to return to me. We function better when happiness gets in!

It’s been said that God is the name we give to mystery to give it shape. Darkness is mysterious, not only because we can’t see well in it but because it connotes the unknown. I don’t know that it was God moving between Angelica and me that predawn morning, but a celebration of friendship, mystery, gratitude, and an appreciation for the physical ability to walk, certainly was. Yes, as poet William Stafford wrote, “the darkness around us is deep.” Turning away from it will not take the darkness away, only facing it will. But remember, too, there is also the promise of light, and that’s a promise to walk into this new year with.

Del Rey Oaks writer and poet Patrice Vecchione is the author of several books including, most recently, “My Shouting, Shattered, Whispering Voice: A Guide to Writing Poetry & Speaking Your Truth” and “Step into Nature: Nurturing Imagination and Spirit in Everyday Life.” Her titles are available wherever books are sold. More at patricevecchione.com.