I See the Moon

Early on, when B and I lived across the country from one another, when neither of us knew what was ahead,  before iPhones and texts and emails--

Yes, before.

--the state of the moon was this connection, this link, that seemed significant at that time.

We talked on the phone most every night. Our phones had cords and were connected to the wall.  We'd converse for hours. My listening ear would get hot and sweaty, our necks would ache, fingers would cramp from clutching. Hold on, I have to switch ears. 


"Did you see the moon?"

"Ya,  I can see it from here."

"Me, too." Laughs. "From here."

Whenever I see the moon for the rest of my life, I shall think of those long calls and that falling in love.  I wonder how many billion people we share that in common with?

That's the thing about the moon.

There when you were born, there when your grandma died at 94 in the middle of the night and there all the nights of her life too, and there when you were a teenager crying, driving to nowhere in Dads car, wondering how to find yourself and get out of this damn town and there on the drive to Spring Break with your four college besties snoozing when it was your turn behind the wheel in Indiana and there watching over while you walked home alone at 4 am and there connecting back to this man who you'd marry and stargaze with from mountaintops and there on the drive to the hospital the night your water broke, and there in broad daylight fading away when your keen five year old spots it hiding.

Still there when you just need some fresh air at midnight amongst heated words over nothing, there to to be seen and watched, to help you pause and remind yourself of the love, not a to do not done or an opinion not appreciated.

Have you seen the moon tonight?  It isn't quite full, but it's beautiful.

Isn't it?


And goodnight to you, Moon.

I Saw a Unicorn

I'd had a day. It wasn't perfect.  I took the deepest breath at the stoplight, saw my chest rise to the sky and then I exhaled all that bad energy out. ONE. I had done my best TWO with what the day THREE dealt me, solved problems, FOUR eased concerns from coast to coast. FIVE  What more can I do? SIX It's all good, just exhausting some days SEVEN. That day is done. Goodbye.

Deep breathe in. I didn't feel capable of a sentence when I walked in the door.

We gathered our trio and went for pizza. A glass of wine. Everyone cooperated.  I settled back in, resetting. We went for a walk to the park. The clouds were big and tall like they've been for weeks. It made me think of living near mountains.

The girls bathed and went to sleep so easy. I cleaned up the days messes. I felt content but maybe still in a haze.

On the art table, this. A happy unicorn who flies and is also a race horse and who likes to eat hot dogs and loves unequivocally.

Thank you, my oldest. I needed a unicorn.

The Poetry of the Earth

Laying in bed, last night.

No lights, windows open.  Just the fingernail clip of a yellow moon keeping an eye on things.

And a serenade by the end-of-summer choir of crickets.

"How many crickets do you think we are hearing? Like 100? Or 14? Or like a million?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder."

I send a thought out of my 2nd story window, down and into the night, the dark, through the old oak tree branches, slipping to the dewy grass, into the crevices of the tiger lilies.

Goodnight, sweet crickets, constant in this night, rocking me to sleep. Your song nearly makes me weep, carries me softly back thirty years of summer eves.

THE POETRY of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead        
  In summer luxury,—he has never done
  With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost      
    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
    The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

John Keats, December 30, 1816.

The Good of Down

Today. Me and the girls slept in until 7:28 and that is early but it felt late.

Today. I caught a glimpse out of the cottage window of Elizabeth, a smile on her face, 
her head bent back, eyes squinting, watching the bubbles she blew through the wand fly up
and up
and up
And away.  
And then I was watching too and leaning out the window 
looking up and wondering…
To where…

Today. We spent a hazy August day at the beach and three hours wasn’t enough time for my five year old to catch waves and my three old slithered in the muddy wet sand like a snake and my one year old waded into Lake Michigan like she had been on this earth far longer than a year.

At days end, after an afternoon thunderstorm that had ushered most of Ellison Bay into slowing down, suddenly whoots! And whooshes….and a handful of kids from up the hill were biking down the road full speed and shouting joy and carefree, the happy giggles of being say 9 and 11 and 13 and riding matching white cruisers down the Lakeview hill road after a rain. 

I sat on the porch, wanting to join them, to feel the mist and grit on my legs from the wet road and the thrill and tickle of downhill fast, and then to speak it and shout it out.

Oh man, the good of down!

Back up again and again and again
for the good of down. 

Image here.


August 1st and the clouds were big today, so tall, commanding your attention away from the Queen Anne's Lace and tonight, the insects are singing so lovely and the air is so thick and sweet and the breeze feels like a loved one is blowing air in your face in a good way, you smirk.

In the distance, the gods are playing with the light switch, a little storm to close the day.

Take your time, August, don't be in a rush.