Moonlight

A December moon at 4 a.m. is so substantially dissimilar and divergent from all others in part because we, as beholders at that hour, see ourselves differently. Our approaching day waits without burden, even if we’ve borrowed our troubles from the previous day and packed them inside today’s purse. This year, more than most, brought unwelcome problems and made somnambulists of us. Oddly, it also brought a duality for some of us, ushering in a fierce determination to be the person inside our own heads.

Someone possessed with an uncanny soul took the picture and shared it with me. That she was up at that hour surprised me. It was her first message to me for the day. 

She stood in the kitchen and recognized something ethereal, authentic, and beautiful in the shadows that formed on the floor under her. Most might snap a picture of the moon itself; I think you might agree with me that the echoes and reflections of beauty in our lives often outshine the source. It is a gift to glimpse something previously unseen in the midst of the familiar. I’ve known a few people whose lives sparkle with the ability. They all radiate the same force that hides in the moonlight. Such radiance is difficult to discern by looking directly; we have to turn our heads and observe the consequences of their presence.

Whether she sometimes tries to control the radio or stomp the floorboards too often, she radiates.

She, of course, doesn’t see it. 

I whisper words of grace for her, ones petitioning a clear mind and the kind of sleep that few of us find at our easy disposal. Meanwhile, I return these slivers of moonlight to her. 

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