New Moons

It’s that time of night where I lie awake in my sleeping bag, curled and cozy, and the need to use the “facili-trees” steadily increases. I look at my watch: 11:30p.m. “I can make it til morning,” I lie to myself, not wanting to leave the warm cocoon I‘ve created for myself. Steadily the feeling grows and I can no longer lie to myself; I must head out into the cold night air and leave this comfort behind. I pull my puffy jacket out from the inside of my bag and pull it over myself in a last ditch effort to retain the heat I have created for myself over the last few hours. Resentfully, my weary legs make their way out of my sleeping bag and into my sandals as I grab my headlamp and head out into the world of night.

The moon is almost full. Her light floods the sands at my feet so I can see fully without turning on my headlamp. After ”taking care of business,” the noise of my head subsides and the silence of the night settles in.

A memory stirs of a girl in Washington. Her hair is in the same bedraggled curls as my own. She wears the same bright patterned clothes, but that same brightness seems to be more of an extension of something inside than an adornment meant to cover up. It’s a night much like tonight but instead she is surrounded by pines and snow covered peaks. There is ease and wonder in her heart as she stares up into the night sky. The stars are a constellation of answers and connection. She breathes in the night air and the world feels like home.

The moon glares at me. The stars are a constellation of questions I can’t seem to find the words for. The ease of the world is an assault to the restlessness of my heart. I should feel calm, clear, connected. I feel restless and unsure. I breathe in the night air and wonder how I could ever deserve to belong to this much ease, flow, connection, and beauty. How dare the moon be so content with its place and it’s beauty, while I stand here so unsure of my own.

I wonder how long it took the moon to accept her cycles, if she too is still “working on it.” I wonder how she opens herself to become full while knowing that waning will inevitably follow. I wonder if becoming full scares her, like it does me. I wonder why I call her cycles “full” and “new” but call my own “full” and “empty.” I wonder what might happen if I too let myself wane into something new. I wonder what might happen if I didn’t have to be that girl in Washington again, but instead could become something new, and it still be beautiful. I wonder no longer what I will do with this experience, but rather, what will it do to me?

What are you wondering if you can accept? What new, beautiful thing might happen if you did?