When the Moon Stares Back
The air is thin as twilight aches with clarity, and the almost-full moon illuminates a dreamy, snow-covered world. I stare out the kitchen window. The tracks that I made earlier vanished into the hilly woods that lead to the valley where real Christmas trees will never see an ax.
Green is black. Gray is lavender. Black is blacker. White is sharp, harsh, and unforgiving.
Why does the world sleep at such times? I witness and celebrate the emergence of elusive secrets that hide beneath the cloak of obscurity, now revealing and validating that the dark threats were always my own.
I hold the innocent, bare facts up to the glaring light of the moon and bathe in the realness of this newfound dream. The shadows stretch across a perfect, clean, white blanket. In this sacred place that reflects purity, stark reality does not hide and does not know shame. Fear does not try to escape, and in this new light, has no reason to do so. It waits in case I forget.
I retreat, crawling back into the safe womb—the warmth that seemed to be out of reach but never was. It is up to me to 'understand' understand. To be in this undisguised light affords rightness and the ability to accept groundlessness, emanating from a solitary pinpoint. This affirms, clearing a pathway to infinite possibilities. Knowing is what I knew, what I know, and what will sustain me.
Again, I stare at the moon. The moon stares back. —another great myth to behold.
Heady Blossoms, Journal: Sage —Mj Pettengill © Daisyfields Press