In the Broadway version of The Lion King, Simba sings of the “Endless Night” that he is experiencing when he feels abandoned by his father:

“Where has the starlight gone?

Dark is the day

How can I find my way home?

Home is an empty dream

Lost to the night

Father, I feel so alone.”

But something amazing happens. The chorus starts singing,”I know that the night must end. And that the sun will rise.” And Simba eventually joins in. His story, his battle is really just beginning, but he’s already starting to realize that he has a choice. He can either believe that the night, his exile, is never ending… or he can put his faith in the ever consistent sunrise.

Everything is a choice.

Whether or not we get out of bed in the morning is a choice. Eating breakfast is a choice. Driving safely is a choice. We always choose what we do, even if we do not realize it. Even if they are automatic.

I read a short, not quite credible clickbait article from “Health of Women” that made me upset this morning titled “Robin Williams did not die from suicide, wake up people.” A couple of my Facebook friends had shared it. I clicked on it because I was expecting some crazy idea about some conspiracy (it was on Facebook, after all). As it turns out, the author did have a crazy idea. And it was this: Robin Williams died from depression and not from suicide. He also wrote that suicide is not a choice.

Becoming depressed may not be a choice, but staying depressed is. One can cheer themselves up (it can seem impossible, I admit) or choose the night, to stay burden down by the oppressive blackness. If one can choose to not feel depressed, shouldn’t one be able to choose life?

Suicide, by definition, is voluntary. It is deliberately, intentionally killing oneself. It usually means that one has a plan thought out beforehand. It is not inevitable.

I agree wholeheartedly that mood disorders, all mental illnesses, and suicide have collected stigma that should be dissolved. This will only happen when those afflicted with these kind of darknesses are truly heard. Not understood. I don’t think it’s possible for mental illness to be completely understood by everyone. They just need to be heard and acknowledged.

That acknowledgement is a choice.

Going to class is a choice.

Eating beef ramen over chicken is a choice.

Going to work on time (or even working in the first place) is a choice.

Reading this is a choice.

And above all, life is a choice. The biggest, the hardest, and the most important one of all.

“A single tiny light creates a space where darkness cannot exist. The light vanquishes the darkness. Try as it might, the darkness cannot conquer the light.” – Donald L. Hicks

I do not think I am alone in my awe of what light can do to darkness. This awe has been prevalent since the beginning of humans’ time on earth and I suspect that it will be around long after I’m gone. Our relationship with light, however, has changed since the early humans’ discovery of fire. We, especially in first world countries like the U.S.,  do not always quite get the true relationship of dark and light. We have so much light at night, we can’t always see the stars. Many astrologists have to resort to retreating to the mountains or to secluded places away from civilization where their only adversary is the weather.

Perhaps because of the constant presence of light pollution, I am extra aware of the power that a single candle can bestow onto a room and how a flashlight can transform a forested campsite. A candle won’t light up everything in the room entirely, but it does illuminate the things that do matter: family, friends, a book, a game introduced by a child’s mother to decrease fear… When camping, I have seen the beam of a flashlight transform pine trees into monsters with many wild hands, but I have also seen it shine on rocks I might have stumbled on, the path to my destination (usually the bathroom), and the welcoming sight of our family tent.

Our relationship with darkness and light is not always literal. Darkness can be a fitting, albeit simple, metaphor for depression, natural disasters, tragedies like the Oregon school shooting, or just personal struggles. Similarly, light is whatever expels that darkness.

Some of my lights are:

My family. They glow with love for me, each other, and for others around them.

My friends. They’re like glow-in-the-dark-stars, except they don’t fade after a certain time.

Those are the easy ones. The ones on the top of my head.

I also find my lights in:

Good literature, especially the ones that make me tingle inside.

Bananagrams.

Relaying my dreams to my roommate.

Spending time with my beau, even if it’s for a few minutes.

Laughing at myself.

Serving other people, especially if they have stories to tell.

Having enough food.

Being other people’s lights

I often worry that I’m not doing anything that will make my life memorable. But I guess if I’m at least one person’s light during my lifetime, that will suffice.