Every so often you get a second chance. Once in a while, oh so rarely, there’s a moment of grace, life pauses, then begins again, two spectacular moons in a single month. Another full moon, another chance at a full life. A new life rises and shines.
Tonight, knowing that there would be a blue moon, I sat outside and waited to see whether it would speak to me. Since I’ve been alone I grab gratefully at any chance at renewal, look for signs, seek moments of redemption. Perhaps this would be one.
Looking right, looking left, like a careful child crossing an unknown road, I waited to see what it would bring me. Christmas morning, or the apocalypse now, it was hard to say. I live on the water, but I lost my anchor when Shel died. When he left me I was full of questions. Might I float away, unmoored, untethered? Might I sink under the considerable weight of my sorrow and solitude? Would the world notice that he was gone, and that I was still here? The moon and sun are indifferent to me, would I succumb to the vast uncaringness of the universe?
Or might I let myself rise like new dough, freshly punched down, but still wanting to grow? Peeking over the rim of the bowl, exhaling, that fresh smell of yeast growing, of night flowers blooming, of the sea swallowing up the hottest day and gulping in the freshness of evening.
Who knows when that light will fall on the water in a way that illuminates your soul? You have to be out there, waiting to capture it, or you’ll miss it altogether. Tonight I sat under the sky, alone, waiting. The moon rose, and so did my spirits. I am going to be alright. I am going to be more than alright. I am going to rise again.
