Moon on Fire

Leaving the gym each night this week, I watched patiently for the waxing moon to the east; I knew it would be full soon.  That moon, she greets me with a warm smile every time she arrives.  I always try to give her a friendly "Hey" when she puts on her show.

For those of us with a dark spot in our being, night is our real home.  Sunlight is too harsh and revealing, so the forms of light we trust and adore are the gentler moon and stars.  We can stare at them as long as we like and they will not hurt us.  Their cycles are not unlike the cycles our own lives take, the waxing and waning of our moods, the meteor showers of happiness.  Many times, one thing or idea or person in my world has outshined all else, as Venus does at times---surely everyone who has ever lived has felt that way.  No doubt there are people who have never seen the Milky Way, looking so thick and frosty that you wish you could sip it through a straw.  I feel so sorry for them; they only have to look up to know it's there.

The Poets, of course, know the value of this easy metaphor, this fickle moon who shares herself willingly with anyone who will pay attention to her.   The Bard himself loved to use the occasional lunar reference for his lovesick characters.   There are those lesser poets who often get a little over-wrought and feverish about it---but still, they hit the mark in a way we all want to hear:  "I'll come to thee by moonlight/ Though hell should bar the way."  What girl wouldn't swoon at that?

One spring night long past, some 15 years ago, I was driving home from a regional speech contest where I was a judge for the team I had just given up the year before when I changed schools.  The day had opened a chasm of loss and love I had for those kids, my Roland babies, and I drove nearly 50 miles, weeping aloud, windows down despite the cold to try to calm myself.  At some point I looked out my car window to the left.  In the western sky was the tiniest little splinter of a moon.  I wasn't even sure it was real at first.  In an instant, I was reminded of an evening in the spring of '93.  I was driving home to Skedee from Austin to surprise my baby sister, who had the lead in the school play.  It was long after midnight, and I was about 20 miles from home on a straight but hilly stretch of Highway 15.  As I came over a hill, a bright orange light leaped into view.  I thought at first that I had come upon a house fire, or maybe a hay-barn fire, and very close at that.  I had never seen such a light at night outside of a city.  But a fire?  No---a colossal, pumpkin pie/carrot fire full moon.  I wanted to stop, get out of the car, and try to touch it:  it was just that large and real.  I was awed that I got to see it, sped over hills hoping that it wouldn't have disappeared.  And when I saw that meager little sickle moon, the night that I was so heartbroken and grieving for my kids, I recalled the earlier trip in an instant.  I thought, "How sad.  That's all that most people get in their lives, that little sliver.  But I've had the moon on fire."  I had been driving along mourning for things lost to me, then generously received a gentle reminder of how much more I've had and understood, all courtesy of that loving moon. 

So I look forward to her show every chance I have to see it, wondering what message she will bring me:  a muse for an art, an eye-catching presentation, or even a crucial insight to dry life's tears.