The Moon and I

There is something compelling about the moon to me. I see her, and my blood quickens, and a feral drumbeat begins to build in my bones.

I drive down the little mountain that we live on, roads lined with yesterday’s snow. My mind is full of to-do’s and obligations, when I steer my car around a bend and there she is, the newborn moon.
 
Suddenly my heart feels too big for its cage. I pull over, fumble with my phone, take a photo that reduces the moon’s grandeur to impossible triviality, and try to breathe. I want to launch myself from the car, roll wildly in the snow, whooping and cheering at the hallowed sight.

The barely there silver crescent cups her remainder, visible although it is cloaked in our cosmic shadow. She barely lights the sky, but I feel bathed in Holy.

I think it has to do with cycles, and with mystery. Because, as a woman, there is so much of my being that is cyclical, although it’s only recently that I’ve been able to come to terms with that reality. It has taken anorexia-inducing amenorrhea (the loss of menstruation), two pregnancies and postpartum healing, sixteen months of breastfeeding, and the return of my menstrual cycle to appreciate my physiological, emotional, and creative cycles.

Today I'm writing  over at my amazing friend Ester Emery's blog!


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