I have an evening ritual...I look for the moon. I am disappointed when it cannot be seen.
I love the moon. I am amazed that something so constant, so structured can have so many variables. I love watching the phases and the evening colors that come with them. The moon at her fullest bathes me in silver, and for a little while, if I close my eyes, I am young and lithe again. I can hear the music that would come from the gazebo in the park, when I was twenty something, and I can remember dancing to the various “moon” songs…Blue Moon, Moonlight Serenade, Moon River.
I have photos of tangerine slices of moon, and golden banana moon, and mottled bleu cheese moon, and clear bright white huge orb that appears as if heaven is presenting her best precious pearl of beauty to the earth, and the stars applaud as it climbs higher.
But perhaps the reason I love the moon is that it symbolizes time…many moons ago; once in a blue moon. Time is passing, and I am remaining. I plan to see the moon as often as I can…and celebrate as it turns each new phase, for I too have new phases. And life goes on with children growing and changing and turning and leaving… surely as the moon.