As far back as I can remember, although my love interests have changed, I remain in a state of recognizing when and where I am most impassioned. Some feelings wane over time; some swell my beating heart; some cause anguish; some elevate me to a dream-state. Some types of love are gentle and soft as the babies in my love-life are. No matter what or who it is who moves me emotionally at the time, I can be sure of one thing: I shall never forget how the loving feels! It is like owning the sun and the moon, the stars and the universe. The down-to-earth reality for me is that loving is a common denominator beneath my heart-felt emotions.
Here’s a for-instance: One beautiful springtime, I fell in love with a Sonoran Desert cactus. Its stand-off persona did not mean it would not want to be loved; it was simply the most natural way to ensure its own ‘space’… so like some people I know. For, we are all vulnerable and put out signals for reasons of protection and privacy. Like the traits of certain individuals, when the cacti were good n’ ready to flaunt their beauty, seek affection and adoration, they had the ability to become gracious, colourful flowers in spite of their barbed protective façade. With so many areas in life which are worthy, I figured out that I had to learn how to love better.
In recent years, I’ve particularly loved sky, clouds, stars and moons. Around the globe, I note subtle and dramatic changes in them all, especially in moon’s different faces. For instance, in the Australian Outback, sand painters depict the ‘spirit moon’ in their dreamscapes. I take note of differences I’ve seen across the globe, say, in Asia, where I marveled at the ‘pearl of heaven’ which was not unlike the exquisite cool forms of pearls plucked from the sea.
I was entranced as well when, on a summer night, I encountered a ‘strawberry moon’ plucking juicy berries from the dark near my feet and highlighting their crepe texture for my weary eyes to feast on.
From an ancient almanac, I learned mothers of the Iroquois weave the ‘woman in the moon’ in their tapestries and headbands while over the seasons of time old mother moon’s cat unravels the headbands causing the moon to disappear and begin again. In the invisible hands of the weaver, the phase of a ‘new moon’ appears which she’ll hang proudly in the night sky. I’ve heard that, with cultural festivities, feasts and celebrations, native tribes honour the ‘long-night moon’ so called because it arrives close to winter solstice on the longest night in late December.
Over islands in the Pacific, exotic moon glow creates the beauty of silver linings which reflect on the shimmering sea. Natives there know that the ‘new moon’ gets there by way of rainbows painted on hazy mornings in the rainy seasons or during afternoon storms brutally crashing surf. The story goes that Mother Nature, in her grand natural schemes, splashes her pallet of colours heavenward in arcs so as moon can escape the ocean depths! Watching the tropical-wonder from aboard the bow of a catamaran out on a sunset dinner cruise felt awesome. It was on such a visit to a far-away isle that moon’s gravity caused the tides to rise at my feet; I relished the rush of its power.
It was over a rugged South African coast that ‘mother moon’ sent her beams to highlight the cliffs of Cape Town with a rare glitter. She meandered inland and glazed over the lush vineyards often creating remarkable nightscapes to the heady beat of Africana tribal drums. Elephants regarded her as their keeper while families and friends celebrated their moon-mother religiously in their traditional festivals.
The power of mother moon’s magic, in the far north, produces offspring born on moonlit nights. Smoke rising from evening campfires feed the starry host where its energies of swirling aurora borealis urge the universe to dance to the magic of dramatic moon-spells.
In a lengthier epistle, I could speak to more changes and shapes the moon takes as it moves through the sky wherever I am, inspiring me to dream; but, for this passage of prose I’ll stick to the scenes I sketched so hastily in my journal. Scenes of corners where moonlight exposed nocturnal meanderings; where, it exposed the frivolous flair of the spider’s web with its droplets of moisture glistening like a string of glass beads; where, in the bog of a bay, night crickets sing for joy; where, if I tiptoe lightly enough under moonlight, I can catch sight of a young doe and her twins resting in a thicket.
As the moon moves into and out of its phases, I too move in and out of new territories. Without studying the science of moon’s journeys, the near-side of her always intrigues me.
When night is darkest and there is no siting I understand the shyest phase as I tend to identify with her… and my own aura becomes one of mystique.
Considering ‘favorites’ brings me to my knees and I have to say mother moon’s auspicious features appearing for the season of Christmas in North America is most wonderful. The full ‘cold moon’, all dressed in white fur, hangs like a tree-bulb-shaped ornament over my home in B.C. where, inside, a scented pine is dressed in white twinkle lights and moon-shaped bulbs. The scene serves to remind me of the enduring gifts Mother Nature offers throughout the seasons which, if we take notice, move us emotionally to feel in love with life.
– Rita Joan Dozlaw resides in Kamloops, B.C . She is an award winning author and poet.
