Sanctity of Nights

The night is a sacred interval in the daily rhythm of the earth. It’s the time when soil cools, leaves rest, insects shift their quiet labours, humans sleep (or should sleep), and nocturnal creatures emerge to do the work that daylight does not allow. The onus is upon us humans to protect this darkness. As it so happens, we are the only species who are destroying it.

Light pollution is not merely a matter of wasted electricity or harsh city glare. It is a steady, invisible disturbance of ancient biological and ecological cycles. Wildlife suffers first. Birds migrate by the stars and become disoriented by bright skies. Nocturnal predators lose their advantage, while prey species live in a state of constant, unnatural alertness. Even insects, the smallest engineers of our ecosystems, spiral endlessly around bulbs rather than carrying out their quiet work of pollination and soil renewal. These are just a few examples out of thousands and thousands that are affected.

Human beings are also not spared from this disruption. Our bodies are attuned to darkness. Artificial light at night interferes with melatonin, the hormone that governs sleep and repair. When this rhythm is broken, the consequences accumulate slowly but surely. Sleep becomes shallow, mental health suffers, and long term risks rise, including metabolic disorders, depression, obesity and certain cancers. What seems like harmless brightness is, in truth, a subtle form of biological stress.

From a farmer’s point of view, even the land feels the weight of this constant illumination. Plants rely on night length to regulate flowering, dormancy, and seed setting. Soils cool and breathe under darkness. When artificial light blurs the boundary between day and night, even these silent processes begin to shift, and over time, the resilience of the land weakens. The harvest suffers.

In organic farming, we try to work with natural systems rather than overpower them. Protecting the sanctity of night is a continuation of the same philosophy. Light should be low and purposeful. It should fall only where it is needed and nowhere else. Fields, hedges, orchards and forest edges should be allowed their rightful darkness. The night is not a void to be conquered, but a living space that deserves respect. In my place, the lights are intentionally of low intensity that the nearby surface is visible, almost like under a full moon, but nothing more. No extra lights and nothing to light up the whole of the premises. That’s a waste.

There is also a quieter loss from light pollution, one that is harder to measure. When the stars disappear behind a veil of artificial glow, our view of the universe is obscured. For most of human history, the night sky was a shared inheritance. Constellations were calendars, stories and maps. Today, light pollution severs that connection, not only robbing ordinary people of wonder, but actively hindering astronomy and our ability to study the wider cosmos. We lose both knowledge and humility when we can no longer see beyond our own rooftops.

Then there is the simple matter of waste. Light pollution is energy thrown away, increasing the overall carbon footprint. It is money spent to illuminate empty roads and empty sites, vacant fields, and sleeping buildings. It is needless carbon in the air and needless strain on already stretched resources. In a world where so many still live with limited access to power, this excess is not just careless, it is unjust.

Now, people from cities who have bought pieces of land in this village are beginning to build their houses and projects here. Along with them, they have brought the city habit of flooding the night with unnecessary light, born more from discomfort with darkness than from any real need. Just today, I messaged three of them requesting that they switch off their bright outdoor lights. The most telling part was that one of those homes was empty, and another construction site had no work going on and not even a soul in sight. No one was there, yet the lights burned on through the night, illuminating nothing, protecting no one, and quietly erasing the natural darkness that this place has long lived by. The third person was actually present and seemed quite unaware of the harm such lighting causes. Thankfully, he switched off his outdoor lights after reading my message. I may come across as stern or even ill-mannered when I send these reminders, but it feels necessary. Someone has to speak for the night before its quiet beauty is lost.

When I stand in my orchard after sunset, with only a few small shaded low-intensity lamps at a distance, I can hear the land breathe. Crickets rise in their steady chorus. An owl passes in silence and lands on my roof. Nightjars care be heard. The trees feel taller, older, as though they remember a time when the world understood how to sleep. The sanctity of night is not a romantic idea. It is a practical truth. Darkness is as essential as sunlight. Without it, wildlife falters, human health weakens, energy is squandered and our gaze is trapped on the ground instead of lifted to the stars. To protect the night is not to move backwards. It is to live wisely, in rhythm with a world that still knows the value of rest, mystery and deep, healing dark.

I hope people reading this will start turning off the lights and maintain the sanctity of nights.

Click here for all related posts – Browse my blog on slow and sustainable living !