The door was round and red, ornate and stylized, but it did not invite entry. In fact, it did just the opposite. I hesitated at first to step inside, because beyond the door all was darkness. Darkness on a warm, bright, late-summer noon.

Who knew bamboo trees could grow so close together? Who knew they could shut out the day? Had a path not been plotted between the plants, the forest would have been impenetrable.

But there was a trail, and as I made my way along it, I touched the smooth trunks, marveled at the tangle of leaves that hid the sky.

There was no way to get lost in the grove. I needed no trail of pebbles or breadcrumbs. Before long I was back in the brightness. Will all of us be so lucky? I hope so.

(This post titled with apologies to Arthur Koestler, whose novel Darkness at Noon depicts an even grimmer era.)