I am writing this on a Monday, a full moon Monday, where the silliest thing is making me smile. When I tell you what it is, you will shake your head, or maybe not, if you fancy yourself to be a woman who occasionally runs with the wolves.
My 99 cent thrill is an application called “Mooncast”. I loaded it onto my phone, and now a wolf howl warns me when there is going to be a full moon. I occasionally open the application to manually play the howl, just to hear the call of the wild. Ahhhwooo!
Sunday night, I had a dream, I’ve been having a lot of those lately. An entire series. This time, someone did something very hurtful to me. I ran out into the night crying, looking around for a bit of pretty to shine away the pain. I saw nothing in the dark, but I suddenly knew what would make me feel better. It’d been so long, could I still do it?
I ran and then pushed off from the ground into the air, doing a scissor kick to lift myself higher into the sky. I could feel the hold of gravity and weighted demands release their grip. I flew over the houses, the lights of the city dancing like stars below me.
Light, it comes in more than one variety. Light in the dark holds hope and guidance.
Light on a foggy morning is what I call ghost light, full of mystery.
I’ve been reading a few pages a day of Hanna Hinchman’s “Little Things in a Big Country” to take in a touch of nature in the morning, before I have to hit rush hour traffic. Perhaps I should carry the book with me as an hourly touchstone break from the harsh boundaries of cube and computer screen.
Anyway, this is a portion of the words I read Monday morning:
“There’s a quality of light that seems ‘nostalgic,’ as though it had arrived from some far distant past… Workaday sadness is diluted and absorbed outdoors in the ‘more than human’ world. Spirits are revived by the constancy of the real.” — Hannah Hinchman