the almost full, Buck Moon

a prose piece in praise of following your heart:

July 19th, 2024

Though I planned otherwise, when I got up for water and saw my love rising, glowing, my heart leapt breathless and alive at the sight. There was nothing to do but forget sleep and respond wholeheartedly.

I love when I feel as though I am following destiny's calling. When compelled by a strong, sudden desire to do something I strangely, somehow see the outcome as already, one way or another, foregone. As though the choice has been made for me and part of me knows this.

Made for me, but by whom?

While I'm caught wondering who's choosing? my judging thoughts are three steps behind the thump of my heart- following feet.

I swear, the other night wasn't of my doing if my refers to the self I so often obey.

The self that tries its best to keep my wild self safely contained.

The self that claims to always know what's best for frightened, little me.

In mid- life I am not so sure that that, always thinking, self, is my best guide.

So the other eve, no thought involved beyond the deepest knowing that I would,

I hurried unencumbered up the quiet, nighttime hill.

Up the hill past the queer blue glow from flat screen tvs lighting up small differences in the otherwise closed faces of little hillside houses to the left and right of me.

Up the hill carried by the caress of the most glorious summertime air until all of a sudden I was hit with gasping wafts of laundry fragrance and smoke, so thick it made breathing in humidity feel easy, and me with no puffer, no pocketful of lozenges, no plan to head out on a walk at all.

Feeling suddenly anxious, a little voice said to me you'll be fine, keep going, and I rose above the usual crush of anxiety in times like this, above the worries of a mind and body unsure of what they can handle and a heart, often uncertain, too.

Up the hill, this walking blend of ease and dis-ease, of want and satisfaction, of confusion and delight, of fear and freedom. Up the hill, I hurried in anticipation of my being with my love, nearly full and now quite brilliant against the smooth indigo sheet of sky.

Up the hill I went to see the moon.

And when I got there, there I stood; just me in the almost dark by the gravel road. Me and the moon, gorgeously present above the scrawl of trail side, night- blackened treetops.

Everything beautifully silent, save my wonder-filled pounding heart, save the grasping, human thought of wanting this to last for ever more.

Me and the moon. The moon that asks nothing and always does what's expected still somehow surprises me, catching me with its ever-changing beauty, appearing in ways I don't expect.

It makes me wonder does the moon ever want to just race across the starry sky or bounce and drift off into the sea of blackness? Does it ever, like me, want to not obey the laws of physics it is held within? Always predictable, ever so steady in its wondrous rhythms.

There for us. Tied to us.

But why would I feel in love with the moon?

My maternal grandmother loved the moon like she loved my farmer grandfather's strong hands. But differently. Why did she love the moon? Perhaps because it guided her through the dark night in an era before electricity had come to rural PEI. Certainly all her foot travel and fun at night in her youth was made easier by a full moon.

But love?

Was she a romantic too?

Dear woman that she was, she is long passed so I'll never truly know.

As for myself the other eve, there we were, the moon and I. One mad woman, desperate and wanting, already half-broken by the world, coming completely undone by the strange and wondrous beauty of it all, standing in the moment, with a heart wide enough to fit every blessed and painful truth she's ever known.

Completely and totally enraptured. In awe.

Is this awe, this love, truth? Not sure, though things that move me always feel like truth to me. Like beauty and goodness and courage.

Truth, as we often name it, would seem to be a complicated thing. Not always crystal clear and enduring. Most likely subjective and shifty, depending on perspective and circumstance.

But awe pierces everything and pins us to the moments when we are drenched by its self-dissolving presence. And my awe of the moon, saw me disappear, soaked to the bone in wonder. Perhaps as close to truth I'll ever know.

And yet, one more subjective truth:

I've denied so much of what my life has called me to, it hurts. It hurts to know that time is passing and I've been too often untrue to my own heart's calling. Embroiled in fear. Harmed by trauma. Applying self-compassion helps. Same with the learning that comes from improved self-awareness.

But I swear, I will never again miss the call of wildness on a windy night or snowy morn!

The blessed call of summertime's wildflowers to behold their fleeting splendor, to touch and smell. Of birdsong to listen to and search for the song's origins or follow the flight of delicate white-tailed dragonflies darting generation after generation in the garden...I will not miss answering their calls to my heart.

And I swear again, I will show up, my heart as naked as the day is long each time they call, for these are what save me when the rest of the world threatens to devour me whole. When fear and sorrow stake their claim to me I will show up with skillful reminders to self, to pause, allow and feel my way back to my truest self.

So there I stood the other eve, staring bold-faced at the glory moon.

There I stood, saying yes as loudly as I sanely (or insanely, you choose) could.

There I stood in the partial dark of a moon-bright night, one sky-wild woman, filled to overflowing by a love that I can't articulate, barren in that moment of all that wasn't love or awe or beauty.

Breathless, heartened, me and the almost full, buck moon.

"With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?" Oscar Wilde

Thanks for reading.

Hope you catch/caught the full Buck Moon in your neck of the woods.

Jill

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