Artificial Night

My Greyhound-Labrador mix, Sage, groans, tucked under a weatherproof blanket, on her dog bed, as the night casts a spell on dusk. I anxiously fiddle with the wood burning stove, using my poking stick, reciting my past trials and tribulations in my head, trying to create the perfect concoction of heat for us to sail into a deep sleep. Too much wood, too little choke, and this canvas tent will overheat us, the wood will burn out too fast, our sweat will evaporate causing us to shiver as if battling a horrific flu. Too little wood with too much choke and the fire will go out leaving us too cold to find our dreams. The right amount of wood with the right amount of choke, emitting slow burning heat onto the bricks piled around the stove, and we’ll get maybe four hours of perfect heat. We’ll lull off to the sounds of crackling, spitting, and popping fire, the same sensory experience of domesticated fire, both Sage’s and my ancestors associated with safety as they coexisted, evolving alongside one another. Mother Nature’s hug covering WO-man and dog as we drift off into REM. Our sleep cycles intertwined with weather, with sound, with light, perfectly adept to rest alongside Mother Nature's night.

The sounds of Sage’s intermittent groans wash over us as the stars do, somewhere beyond the canvas roof, the floodlights, the streetlamps, the cloud cover, and atmosphere. The dew arrives at the perfect time, when the car's noises turn sparse, and the bustling sound of human existence settles to the bottom of the jar. Our bodies remind us, they’veevolved outside for hundreds of thousands of years. The cooling effect of slight evaporation sends us into oblivion, our dreams lift us away. Eventually, right before the sun breaks the horizon, our bodies start to twitch a bit more. The bird songs come to life. Their chirping is the first thing I consciously acknowledge. The sun's light and temperature increase alongside one another. Sleep becomes a distant memory as we open the tent to greet the day, 10,000 LUX pouring into our eyes.

Sleeping in a canvas tent with a wood burning stove was a dream of mine. I chose to set this 10x10 tent up in my backyard because I wanted to experience a natural night, every night. I wanted the stressors that my insulated, temperature-controlled house couldn’t give me. I wanted the wind to shape me, the sun to wake me, the moon to wish me a good night's rest. My dog wagged her tail in delight each evening as I opened the house patio door indicating we were headed out to the tent. Her body flung itself through the canvas before I could unzip the door all the way. As I went to get a fire started, her eyes looked elated, her spirit lifted too. It took me a few weeks to get the hang of the stove, but the trouble did not stop there.

On the weekends, my neighbor's parties went long into the night, their loudness grew with their blood alcohol levels. Sound blocking headphones couldn’t protect my sleep. Neighborhood flood lights were so bright I tried three different eye masks before finding one that could block out the piercing rays that created dramatic shadows in the yard. The traveling LUX revealed dust in the air. I tucked Sage under a blanket, hoping it would block out the brightness. I played white noise to drown out busy streets. However, Sage struggled to understand which sounds she needed to protect us from. This urban environment confused her intelligent instincts, and she was weary, barking loudly at random times. 

 I stuck around for the course, hoping Sage would get used to the sounds, hoping I would get used to the sounds, hoping. However, weeks became months, and my eye bags grew low. I trekked through days, my sleep routine similar to a single mother with an infant. I ran out of new strategies. Although Sage’s and my spirits were full, our sleep cycles were distressed. Reluctantly, I packed up the tent and went back inside. Two sets of light blocking curtains removed my neighbor's automatic flood lights from view. The insulated walls along with my white noise sound machine removed the parties, and roads. My temperature-controlled mattress mimicked the natural cycle of night and morning. My alarm clock mimicked a sunrise, 320 LUX, as it spewed recorded bird songs as my chosen alarm sound. I began sleeping through the night. Yet, my spirit missed the wild sounds of raccoons in the compost pile and the ancient crackling fire. I missed waking up to the sounds of birds, the life around me, feeling a sense of belonging with the elements and all who live within their constraints.

I couldn’t help but reflect on how these unregulated artificial lights and sounds affect the birds we’re recording for alarm clock tracks. I was able to retreat indoors when the bustling artificial lights and sounds disrupted my sleep. I purchased a fancy sunrise alarm clock, so I could hold onto some of the natural experiences of the night I enjoyed throughout the two months I spent sleeping outside. However, birds don’t have another home to retreat to when drunken parties persist, and obnoxious flood lights pervade. Their biological rhythms remain effected by the interruption of natural night (Raap et al.). Birds cannot escape the environment we’ve collectively created. They cannot escape the artificial light pouring LUX into the night, revealing dust in the air, creating stark shadows amidst crescent moons. The environment we’re calling night repeatedly takes birds lives as they attempt to traverse our brightly lit buildings, accidentally rushing themselves into structures (Korner et al.). Our artificial lights interrupt migration with many species of birds migrating at night. Their biological clocks are negatively affected by light pollution disorienting them during flight (Cabrera-Cruz et al.)

In 2002, Mark Miller compared American Robins (Turdus migratorius) who began their morning song in areas with increased artificial lights- to areas with insignificant levels of artificial lights. Miller found that robins exposed to copious amounts of artificial lights began their morning song during true night. While robins with little exposure to artificial lights began their song during civil dawn (Miller). ‘Free-living birds’ exposed to prominent levels of artificial light are leaving their nest earlier in the morning resulting in less sleep (Raap et al.). Birds are getting less sleep, confused between civil-dawn and true night. My empathy goes out to every non-human animal trapped in the artificial night that humans have created. Humans retreat indoors away from problems of our own making. I’ll never forget how exhausted I felt for months on end, my sleep cycles so interrupted by chaotic sounds and light beams. I cannot help but fear the worst for the millions of animals calling those conditions home. 

Sleeping outside in an urban environment taught me that while humans sleep gracefully under the cover of comforters and insulated roofs, assumed safe by our flood lights and bustling society, our artificial creations leak into the wild night. We’ve created chaotic sleeping environments for creatures who lurked under the cover of night-sky long before we built these structures. Our sense of safety comes at a cost for all who sleep outside, our artificial lights and sounds intercept the wild's sleep.

Works Cited

Raap, Thomas, et al. “Light Pollution Disrupts Sleep in Free-Living Animals.” Nature News, Nature Publishing Group, 4 Sept. 2015, www.nature.com/articles/srep13557. In Text: (Raap et al.) 

Cabrera-Cruz, Sergio A., et al. “Light Pollution Is Greatest within Migration Passage Areas for Nocturnally-Migrating Birds around the World.” Nature News, Nature Publishing Group, 19 Feb. 2018, www.nature.com/articles/s41598-018-21577-6. In Text: (Cabrera-Cruz et al.)

Korner, Pius, et al. “Birds and the ‘post Tower’ in Bonn: A Case Study of Light Pollution - Journal of Ornithology.” SpringerLink, Springer Berlin Heidelberg, 13 May 2022, link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10336-022-01985-2. In Text: (Korner et al.)

Miller, Mark W. “Apparent Effects of Light Pollution on Singing Behavior of American Robins.” Academic.Oup.Com, academic.oup.com/condor/article/108/1/130/5563689. Accessed 22 Oct. 2023. In Text: (Miller)