Vachon Imagined

Last year, my family and I went to the Halloween event at Kings Dominion.

My son loves Halloween, and as often happens with children, his enthusiasm eventually became my enthusiasm. Somewhere along the way, I found myself looking forward to haunted houses, spooky decorations, and things that jump out at you from dark corners.

From one perspective, Halloween is just life wearing a costume.

Goblins.

Ghouls.

Monsters.

Fear.

But I’ll save perception for another post.

As we entered one of the haunted houses, the staff gave us a simple instruction:

“No flashlights.”

Fair enough.

It made perfect sense.

No flashlights.

Got it.

Then I walked inside.

The darkness closed in.

My imagination woke up.

And suddenly I became overwhelmingly anxious about what was waiting around the next corner.

What would jump out?

What would surprise me?

What would scare me?

And so I did what any honest, red-blooded human being does when confronted with uncertainty.

I cheated.

I turned on the flashlight on my phone.

Immediately, a voice barked out from somewhere behind a bloody corpse:

“HEY! TURN OFF YOUR FLASHLIGHT!”

Noted.

I turned it off.

And in that moment I realized something amusing.

I already knew what to do.

I had known from the beginning.

The instruction had been perfectly clear.

The problem wasn’t that I lacked guidance.

The problem was that I was listening to my fear instead.

How often do we do that?

We know the path.

We know the instruction.

We know what wisdom is asking of us.

But then our thoughts begin talking.

What if something bad happens?

What if I get hurt?

What if I fail?

What if I can’t handle what’s coming next?

The body listens.

Fear arrives.

Anxiety follows.

And before long we’re reaching for a flashlight that was never meant to be used.

Not because the darkness is dangerous, but because we want certainty.

We want to know what comes next.

We want guarantees.

Yet life rarely offers them.

Instead, it offers experience.

One moment after another.

One step after another.

One surprise after another.

Eventually I realized that nothing in that haunted house was actually chasing me.

The real challenge wasn’t what was hiding in the dark.

It was my relationship to the dark.

The same is true in life.

Everyone and everything comes to us.

Every person.

Every circumstance.

Every challenge.

Every opportunity.

Energy meets energy.

Life meets life.

And then a choice appears.

Not whether fear will arise—it will.

Not whether uncertainty will visit—it always does.

The choice is what we do next.

Do we run?

Or do we discern?

Do we react?

Or do we remain present long enough to see what is actually standing before us?

The flashlight wasn’t the problem.

My need for it was.

And perhaps that is the beginning of wisdom:

Learning to walk through the dark without demanding that it become light.