Moon

Outside this Window #71

I wasn’t supposed to be awake. An uneventful weekday slumber was transformed into a beautiful restless night illuminated by pregnant glow. A lone siren called her closer, singing its way through secretive streets thick with winter silence.

She shone in over the top of the curtain offering a solid line of light so perfect I knew I was being invited elsewhere, like the time Pete and I walked through Centennial Park under a heavy moon transforming the world to the depths of lavender blue. I meandered barefoot on the sandy horse track and watched Pete scouting different areas, comparing them to other tracks he used near his home at the foot of Table Mountain training for the Camino, if such comparison is possible.

It was one of those nights. We chatted about everything and nothing beneath our blue nightlight. Ah, with you Pete, everything was possible including this impromptu walk under her blue gaze on our way to eat noodles and buy music. Mary Chapin Carpenter. Between Here and Gone. Anthems for our shared moonlit walkabout a thousand years ago.

But last night she snuck in. Her full body suspended as she played with the tide pulling each of us toward ourselves. I didn’t expect to see her so present and true after a smattering of snow earlier. From the kitchen window I could tell it had no chance of settling, even as car tops were blanketed flake upon flake in an intricate knit of ice. Central London fobs the frozen ether with a warmth us underlings racing about her veiny streets will never know. Within the hour I wasn’t surprised to see bare metal bodies and damp black concrete, their dark sheen offering numbed stares as though sworn to secrecy.

And somewhere in between the falling and the melting the night turned clear eyed unnoticed, and up she rose into the heavens thieving the darkness and called to us through small side windows. I caught sight of her ever brightening ladder on my way back to bed. Before I knew it I was leaning against the cold glass, gasping at winter’s frozen claws, chasing silvery rungs up, up and further up still, to her full beautiful beaming face. Had I come down to my desk I would have seen it bathed in wondorous light, but the fantasy of writing was a mirage. Experience first. Besides, I knew I was done for: too mesmerised by her whispering glow as I lay in bed and gazed at her light radiating through the everything of our interior worlds, radiating all the magnificence she lends for an endless spellbound moment so we can experience all the possibility she heralds.

Some experiences are meant to remain untouched as they open themselves to us. Mirroring the heavens and all the night time treasure twinkling down on us, reminding us there are planets and worlds and stars and experiences available if we dare stay awake with them and be the adventurous explorers we are. Just like that walk under the blue moon with Pete. That walk with a beloved departed friend is as untouched as when it happened all those years ago, embedding itself as a jewel upon my heart where it glows always.