Lunar Eclipse part 2

I rush past the wreath on the front door into the dark house, my breath creating ghostly wisps on the settled air. I’ve got to hurry and unpack my briefcase and put away the groceries so that I can enjoy the full moon. Around my little yellow house I flounce, preparing for a moment of communion and sacred calm with nature. Isn’t that just like Advent, all the industriousness, anticipation, and hectic preparation for the BIG EVENT. A white gold streak of light presses through my closed blinds: remember me? Remember awe? Reverence? Centeredness? Transcendence? Mystery? Poetry?

Yes, yes, I do remember, but first I have to check my email and Facebook – it’s been an hour since I last logged in. Oh, and I need to wrap those presents so I can mail them off to Pennsylvania. I am looking forward to a moment with the moon…maybe the five minutes before “Grimm” starts, that new show filmed in Portland. I’m really hooked on that show…I get hooked on a lot of things, actually, and I do remember being hooked once on the moon.

I walk wistfully away from the moon shadows that vein across my hardwood floor and wonder what happened to the woman who would drop everything to stand in awe of the miracle of the full moon, its light and shadow, mystery and metaphor.

Later, after Grimm, I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. Saturday morning to see the lunar eclipse. I’m determined to re-find that woman who marvels in nature, deeming it more important than anything else in her world, nature and poetry her first priorities.

I wake to the shrill of the alarm, feeling a foggy virtuousness about being up so early on a Saturday. I throw on a jacket over my robe and think about stepping outside barefoot—I’ve done that before, into snow, just so I’d know the full chill of Earth’s winter—but not this morning. While pulling on a hat, I’m already charting the words for the poem I’m going to write about the lunar eclipse—before I even step outside…something very backwards about that. It’s been so hard for me to be present these days. I’m constantly future tripping or back flipping into the past, constantly documenting experiences I haven’t fully experienced, like an American journalist reporting on the tsunami in Japan, I’m detached.

Outside in the still morning I look for the moon. Street lights to the east shine like Bethlehem stars in an urban tale of miracles. The neighbor’s Christmas lights cast a golden glow on the tawny grass of their front lawn, but where’s the moon? I walk out into the middle of the empty street – a comfort in being alone while surrounded by sleeping bodies—a privacy encircled by humanity. Through a misty veil I see the moon, ¾ eclipsed by the Earth’s shadow and a towering cedar. The light is sallow and unimpressive—the eclipse obscuring the light of the moon’s glory. I think of Jan Richardson’s poem:

Prayer

God of the two lights,
I love the sun,
its revealing brilliance,
its lingering warmth;
but in the dark of night,
let me learn
the wisdom of the moon,
how it waxes and wanes
but does not die,
how it gives itself
to shadow,
knowing it will emerge whole
once more.

I am reassured that behind the less than brilliant light of the moon this morning, amidst the Earth’s shadow, behind towering cedar and a morning mist, wholeness remains. The moon is always whole, despite its curving, curling, waxing, waning or non existent views.

I am reminded that I, too, am always whole, despite the many eclipses and half-lit dim views I present to the world, despite the gibbous glimpses of brilliance I put out there, the waxing and waning of energy, motivation, desire, passion, and focus. Behind it all, I am still whole.

At 5:30 a.m. my phone chimes a text from a friend trying to detox on her own: “just know i may need the troops (meaning me coming to get her) im embarrassed im gross this apt is gross its all just gross and its so hard to ask for help” I can only pray that she finds her way clear to receive the help that has already been offered. I remember being that eclipsed by alcohol, seeing nothing else but my misery and desperation, giving myself up to shadow. It wasn’t that long ago for me. But this morning, although I may not be fully back into my wholeness and still can’t quite be still in the present, I did just step out into the frosty December morning to look for the moon. I stood in silent darkness, trusting that beneath it all, behind it all, with or without my light shinning, I am whole and I will emerge once more.