Moon rising

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.


Get Lindsey's thoughts on mindful living and parenting in your inbox

6 Comments

  1. Kate
    Posted February 9, 2012 at 8:02 am | Permalink

    Your posts help me so much right now–finding beauty in sadness. One aspect (big) of my life completely and unexpectedly changed suddenly and I can’t see how it will all end up yet. I have glimpses of beauty and hope still but find am I rethinking everything I thought I knew about my last decade. Perhaps it’s because I am on the cusp of turning 40–but I am struggling with letting go of what I thought life would be.

  2. Posted February 9, 2012 at 8:16 am | Permalink

    Light is made meaningful by the presence of darkness. Yes. You know I believe this. It’s interesting because I wrote a very light blog post this morning and it felt right, and good, because I am exploring some darker themes in my fiction now. It is all about contrast, the contrast we choose and that which chooses us.

  3. Posted February 9, 2012 at 9:56 am | Permalink

    Oh Lindsey – so often when I read your words there is a catch in my throat. You write so beautifully about the human experience, about those small, profound moments that make a life. Thank you.

  4. Posted February 9, 2012 at 12:41 pm | Permalink

    Your post struck a cord with me today, Lindsey. Thanks for sharing.

  5. Posted February 9, 2012 at 12:56 pm | Permalink

    I’ve been composing a post all about the moon in my head all week — as is often the case, you and I are on the same page! Hasn’t the moon just been stunning lately?

  6. Posted February 9, 2012 at 4:52 pm | Permalink

    Wow. I never thought of this that the light is made meaningful because of the dark that we can only really see the moon in the night. I too have been following this last brilliant moon and it gives me such comfort to know you are doing the same.

One Trackback

  1. By Goodnight, Moon | Elizabeth Grant Thomas on February 13, 2012 at 8:35 am

    […] make?  And, as if to prove that the moon really is everywhere at once, my friend, Lindsey, wrote this piece about the moon last […]