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When he was six he believed that the moon overhead followed him

For the past two months I’ve counted my days on the moon’s bright face, tracking its waxing and waning each night without fail. I’ve watched the new moon, its seas and craters hidden in shadow, grow full and pregnant over two slow weeks, each day another segment lighting up. I’ve watched the full moon, haloed by thin wisps of clouds, slip away in pieces as if being cut with a great arcing knife. I’ve watched this cycle play itself out at least twice now, never going a single day without spotting the moon and marking its progress. The fact that I live in Seattle makes this observation all the more remarkable, since entire series of weeks with clear skies happen only once in a great while.

It might sound silly, but the experience has awakened a primal, atavistic part of my consciousness. This is how early men, stalking sleeping game with spears, must have felt under the moon’s gaze. To them, this glowing orb was unquestionably alive and powerful; to sleep bathed in its light was to risk grave misfortune, and everyone could recount stories of people behaving oddly when it was full. It’s no coincidence that the word “month” is derived from “moon” – such was its power to our ancestors. When looking up into the night sky lately, I’ve noted the phase of moon and immediately recalled exactly where I was 28 days earlier, the places I’d been that night and the people I’d talked to. The patterns of light and dark indelibly connect two different times and places in my mind, and the feeling is eerie, like deja vu but more lucid and cerebral.

The cloud cover of late has offered a welcome respite from my spirit vision, if that’s what this is. Being so connected to the ebb and flood of light across the moon’s surface is exhilarating and terrifying at once, and having that connection broken over the last several days brings both yearning and relief. I think, on the whole, I’m ready for the skies to be overcast, and for myself to be oblivious, again.

Posted in Musings.


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