I watched the moon tonight. Standing in our yard, outside lighted windows, under the December sky, I looked up for as long as I could. 

Haloed light awash in purple clouds. Stars honed by cold. Woods thick with darkness. Breath steaming at the edge of winter. The moon starched white against black sky.

Strange comfort comes from the night sky. Darkness shrinks our world. Stars give us position. Haloed rings of moonlight pull us to the lighted center – a black hole inverted for our exploration. An invitation to follow the rabbit. 

Night air turns us toward warm fires built with split wood and crinkled news from yesterday. Loved ones sheltered behind candle lit windows give no reason to step outside.  But the cold light of the moon calls us to dreaming, and the cool air of night resets us to wondering. Lying back, our eyes lost in space, we see ourselves in the cratered light – flawed and needing others who need us in return. 

I know the moon’s trick. I know it is dark and cold. But it shines just the same. It watches tears wet tombstones. It spies on evil searching for open windows. It shines over strangers becoming lovers. Trapped by gravity it orbits, too weak to break away. But it refuses anonymity, makes do with what it has – the power of reflection. The light of poets, witches, and lovers – it finds its way into myth and magic, shining with affectioned light.

Imagine no moonlight, nothing to howl at, no tides to rise and fall from, no light for walking hand in hand, nothing for the cow to jump over. Imagine the night sky black, empty, no one to watch over us, nothing to light our way. Consider a lifeless and frozen moon cratered with no reflective power. Looking glass shattered.

The light of the moon is not ambitious. It does not strive to be the sun, to rule the day, or to be anything it cannot. It has no light of its own. But who among us shines absent the projected light of another? A warm smile, a kind word, a supportive nod, each shines a light we reflect, illuminating ourselves while shining onto others. A chain reaction igniting the imagination and celebrating the courage to not be more than who we are. 

I stood and watched the moon tonight, then turned to walk away – hoping it was still watching me.  

Peace,
Chris