A few years ago I was invited to a tradition. I did not realize it at the time – I thought I was being invited to a party. But every year a good friend celebrates their birthday by inviting loved ones to their family’s home in the Southern Tier for Labor Day. They are there all weekend, and you can be too, or you can drop by when you wish (which is what I tend to do).

It’s in [redacted small town], which is [we’ll say an hour away]. I get there driving, alone, south on I-90. My usual ways of being avoid my car. There’s nothing wrong with it – I’m just trying to be, as my children sometimes say, friendly to the earth. I bicycle to work, I walk or bike to the small grocery store instead of driving to the big one when that can be enough to feed the family, and so forth. If I am getting on the Thruway, I am making an exception usually to go see someone I care about very much.

Like a guilty pleasure, I look forward to this drive. I roll down the windows and let the air of the countryside blow through the car, through my hair, and over me. 90 in this part of New York is not too far from Lake Erie, not too far from grape vineyards, and at one point, through the Cattaraugus Reservation. The air smells clean, despite the car exhaust of the Thruway. I drive, and then I am there.

I’ve been to some bad parties. I’ve been to bad parties with beautiful scenery, bad parties with excellent food, bad parties hosted by people I liked very much. You leave a bad party feeling more disconnected from people than when you walk in. Maybe it was because everyone was a stranger and uninterested in meeting someone new. Maybe folks in the crowd were too invested in getting validation from those around them to be socially generous. Maybe there was a vibe of judgement.

This party? It has it all: beautiful scenery, excellent food, a host I care for quite a bit, and key: a crowd that’s warm, welcoming, and fun. It’s comfortable, laid back, and the folks are just great. The secret sauce is the people: my friend has excellent taste in friends, myself notwithstanding. I’ve come to look forward to this gathering. It’s a joy.

After a fantastic time, I was due to depart. My deadline wasn’t a worn out welcome as much as it was the setting sun. In May and June, you accidentally stay up too late because you don’t realize the daylight is stretching, stretching, and going further into the night. Through the summer, you get used to the long days, savor them even. And around late August and Labor Day, the darkness ebbs in earlier and earlier. You felt like you should have more time. But you don’t.

My night vision isn’t great these days. I remember seeing blue trees with lots of details in the nights of my teenage years. After I had my babies, these scenes have become darker, blurring more into the background. It’s fine: I live in a city, so I am rarely truly in the dark. This area was in the woods. I had stepped out onto a balcony to see a gorgeous setting sun and realized I was going to turn into a pumpkin.

I exchanged goodbyes, and got into the car. I pretended I wasn’t nervous about the encroaching dark as I put my home address into Waze. The sunset was so lovely I pulled over to take a picture. Rainbow, texture, and cool crisp air. Maybe most of this drive will be dusk, I thought to myself with a mixture of denial and optimism.

It got darker. The traffic was sparse. I drove at a rate slower than my usual, following the lines of the road as illuminated by my headlights. It felt like there was nothing but black around me. It felt like driving in an abyss.

My fingers were tight on the steering wheel, eyes on the road, just enough cars that I couldn’t use my brights, not enough for ambient illumination. The Reservation was dark except the race track, illuminating everything for a quick second before I went back into the deep dark.

I’ve driven the stretch of the 90 between Buffalo and Syracuse a lot, and it never feels this dark. Driving it the Wednesday after this gathering, I realized it is because that stretch is mostly field and open space. The headlights of the drivers on the other lane partially illuminate yours. Going through three metropolitan areas, there’s more traffic. This area was woods. The forest blocked the other side. And there was less traffic.

I was at high alert. The quiet kept me company.

And then I could better discern the difference between sky and trees.

Are my eyes finally adjusting to the dark?

More and more detail revealed themselves. I relaxed a bit. Did my eyes adjust after all?

Then I realized that it wasn’t me, it was the rest of the world around me. (That’s not usually how it works). I was getting closer to Buffalo, the City of Light, or the City of Light Pollution. It was easier to see because I was driving towards street lights and store signs and it was lighting my way back.

Buffalo’s brightness was kind of like a beacon, welcoming me home. I was so grateful for it.

The brightness is not good for animals and not good for the environment. Neither is hour long drives burning gasoline. Neither is electricity, polyester clothes, plastic food containers, coffee, or really the entire way we live. I exist in the tension that so many things I love, that give me comfort, and that facilitate my life are environmentally harmful. I have not, and probably will not, find a perfect solution. I’ve taken inspiration from my day job and embraced an environmental version of harm reduction strategies. If I can’t be perfect, maybe I can be better.

With that said, I rarely regret the decisions that involve getting in my car and seeing someone I care about. I rarely regret many of the decisions that bring me joy. But I find myself wondering: in the way I grew up along the polluted shores of Onondaga Lake, wishing people before me made different choices, will folks of the future feel that way about me?