Several weeks ago, I couldn’t stop seeing nests in the trees. They were everywhere I turned. And then there was a week when I kept hearing the deafening chorus of sparrows singing in brown bushes. I’m sure it is no accident that there are times when the same thing – sight, sound, image – keeps presenting itself to me, over and over again. It is similar to, and an equal demonstration of the universe’s benevolent if confounding hand, the way quotes, poems, and song lyrics sometimes rise insistently to my mind.
These days I see the moon rising every afternoon. I often set out on my dusk walks when the world is splashed in that gleaming late-afternoon light, as thick as maple syrup and as golden. As I walk the light changes quality as the gold gives way to something clearer, more attenuated. And it is in that still-blue light that I start, always, noticing the moon. I watch it growing from a faint, ragged-edged disc, almost translucent, into a brighter, more solid orb. As the day’s light goes down, the moon rises and asserts its radiance.
This doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Someone recently told me there is a chiaroscuro quality to my writing here (thank you for the lovely comment; you know who you are) and that made me think immediately of the way the moon is always present for me. Even in a sky still bright with sun, the ultimate icon of the night is visible. The highest joys of my life have had seams of sorrow in them, and, likewise, there is always some beauty in the depths of sadness. Light is made meaningful by the presence of darkness. And each time I watch the moon rise, I remember this anew.
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