Another Taste of Moonshine

Smooth and round a day ago, the lemon gelato moon has begun to melt, flattening from the top downward, and its light is puddling in the mist surrounding its base.

December Moon

This sky is the color "midnight blue" from a box of sixty-four Crayola crayons with sharpener, and it's as featureless as the surface of that wax stylus when it was brand-new, shiny-smooth, as yet unmarked by fingernails or other crayons, still sharp and unbroken in its pristine wrapper with the neatly lettered, mysterious name. I wasn't allowed to stay up until midnight, of course, but this crayon, with its honest childhood smell, promised to show me what it would look like if I could see the sky at that late hour.

It isn't midnight now; it's barely dark, and the moon is just beginning its climb from the horizon into that smooth, flat, midnight blue sky. The moon is pale buttercream yellow tonight, but it isn't soft-edged like a frosted cupcake. Instead it is as sharply round as the circles an art teacher cuts from construction paper, circles I try in vain to copy with compass and tracing patterns and round-tipped scissors. The moon's edges are so sharp, in fact, that the sky looks as if some gigantic teacher has cut one of her perfect circles from it, and I can see through the dark into a world of light beyond, a world where  beautiful and warm and welcoming people are smiling and waiting to meet me, shining a light to show me the way in.

I think if I can get there, they won't even mind that my circles are a little pointy.

Nelson Mandela Has Died

It's a dark and dangerous jungle out there, full of tangled vines hanging heavy with hidden intentions as well as gaudy displays of obvious positions. Tooth and claw are ever ready to slash and gash the unwary as well as the aware.

A man died in that jungle. Like every man, he had done good things in his life. Like every man, he had made mistakes. Unlike most, many of his deeds were publicly known. Still, he was a man, and he died. He lived, he died, a man.

"Ah, we are so lost."

"Oh, he was so good. We miss him."

"No, he was a devil. Good riddance."

"He showed us God."

"Thank God he's gone."

Seeking words, when someone dies, we cry with loud voice, "I . . . "

But I am not the one who lived the life, who suffered the blows, who struggled for sanity, who accepted the role, who fought the fight, who called the judgments, who chose the way. I am an observer, many times removed, and my vision is affected by every filter placed between him and me, every voice of interpretation or propaganda.

Who am I to say he was good or bad? Who am I to explain his place in history? Who am I to predict the future impact of his life?

And who are they, the hissing, growling beasts lurking in the shadows of greatness, hiding inaction with loud protestation or proclamation? Who are they who shine their tiny torches from under their bushels to enlighten the world about this man's light?

And what does it matter who we are?

A man lived. A man died. He was a man.

We all live and die. Are we being all we can be, shining all the light we can shine, making all the difference we can make? Why instead do we jump from hiding or pause in the clearing to see if someone else took a speck from his eye? What of our own eyes? And whether our eyes are clear or clouded, does it make them clearer to say we saw what he saw, or to say he could not see?

I tire. I see Jesus looking over the Holy City full of unholy busy-ness and nearly empty of eyes to see. Blind beggars all of us, striving for more, when we have been given all. I am not called to be Mandela, nor am I justified to judge him.

He was a man. He lived. He died.

How will I?

Thank God that in the midst of the posturing and pontificating, the canonizing and vilifying, at last I found a place of peace. One quiet voice spoke, and I heard it, and the jungle grew still, the storm calm.

"Go well, Madiba."

Thank God.

Beautiful Day

"What a pretty day!" I comment to my husband, every time we're together in the car. It's a new thing, a new feeling, a new appreciation of the beauty of each day.

Sunshine? "What a pretty day!"

Fog? "What a pretty day!"

Autumn colors? "What a pretty day!"

Cold drizzle? "What a pretty day!"

I just can't stop seeing the beauty in the world. I love the mysterious changes fog brings as it shrouds familiar scenery, hiding some features and highlighting others. I'm thrilled by the unique colors of each season, so lately I've been rejoicing in autumn's palette. I dance in my heart as the sun bathes my world and me in its light and warmth. I'm enlivened by the pinprick tickles of mist and drizzle, and I smile at the drops on the windows as if I'm receiving friends at the door.

I suppose I'm like a child in Robert Louis Stevenson's garden of verse. I know I often think of myself as being in a garden; certainly my "world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings." If Abraham Lincoln was right, "most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." I guess I've made up my mind to see the fun and the sparkle, even in dark times, and yes, I'm happy, maybe as happy as a king - even when I'm sad.

"Roses and thorns," my mother would say. The flowers and the thorns are on the same bush. We have to decide which we'll notice. If we want roses, they come with thorns. Brilliant, graceful, fragrant flowers alongside fiercely pointed thorns. Some people talk about thorns all day and forget about the blossoms. My mother and I try to appreciate the blooms and steer clear of the thorns, even though we know they're there.

I guess "everything's coming up roses" for me. What a pretty day!

November Moon

I wish I had a camera - or knew how to use a camera - to take a picture of the moon.

I think of the moon as a friend. She is a companion in my evening walks, an encourager in my morning drives. I like to smile at the moon and imagine faraway loved ones smiling back.

I thought, as I watched this month the growing fullness of the moon, that I'd like to take a picture when she was round and silver in my sky. I can't get the camera to see what I see, though. Maybe I'll make notes about this moon, this November moon, in the year of our Lord 2013, and maybe I'll be able to compare this moon with other moons to come.

This moon, tonight, is just past full. A tiny slice has been taken from the upper right curve of her fullness. I saw her first in open sky, but my most familiar view is from my back porch, through trees that have shed at this point a little over half their leaves. If I'd been able to take a  picture, it would have shown black, mostly bare branches, and a few mixed deciduous leaves still deciding whether to stay or go. The moon's face would have been white against a black, cloudless sky. I missed seeing the fullest moment because we had heavy rains last night. The evening air is cool and crisp like the moonlight, and the wet leaves covering the porch send shiny smiles back upward.

Hello, moon. Thanks for the smiles.

What Do You Do with a Flower?

Do you pick a flower? A singular blossom, deep with color, fragrant in the sun - do you cut it, bring it in and watch it, beaming, meditating on its singular beauty? Keep the water fresh, trim the leaves as they wither. Do you hold it in your fingers gently, cradling its life slipping away, soaking in the memory of its perfection before you must remember it? Do you notice the smoothness of the petals, the silky texture of each unique surface? Do you touch it, stroke it, lift it to caress your face? Do you marvel at the pureness of the color, the intricacy of the shape, the delicacy of the fragrance? Do you? Do you pick a flower to keep and cherish, a little bit of the Garden captured for your private world?

Perhaps it's better cut and dried. Do you snip the stem carefully, smiling in wonder at the intricate detail, eager to save its form for posterity? Do you arrange it in its tissue coffin, every detail set to best advantage, then press, press, press away the air, the water, the danger of decay? Do you wait as it lies in darkness, holding your breath, anticipating the unveiling of the work you have wrought? Do you celebrate the timelessness of the preservation, sated by the gift you have taken?

Or do you leave a blossom blooming, feed and water it, cultivate it, and watch it grow? Do you go to visit it, sing with it, dance in the celebration of its presence? Do you marvel at the spherical swelling of raindrops sitting on its petals or the silver transformation of dewdrops frosting its morning? Do you share breath with it, pouring out your life to nourish it, taking in its fragrance to purify your spirit?

Can you own a flower? Do not presume so. You may only share life with a flower. It is here to live out beauty, and it cannot be limited by ownership. Anyone who looks to see a flower may be blessed by it. Even in death its essence may bring life to those who choose to live.

Will you consider the lilies?

Will you consider

me?

Red - Five Minute Friday

It's been a few weeks since I've been able to post here, but I couldn't pass up this prompt. It's about me!

Red?

I AM red. Red hair is the first thing people notice and the last thing they forget about me. It was my nickname through elementary and even high school: Debbie the Red, Red on the Head, just plain Red.

In third grade Thomas Geisberg called me a Redheaded Baldheaded Chinese Woodpecker, so I called him Gooseburger.

My favorite, because it's the most creative, was in high school, when Star Wars came out the first time, and a friend dubbed me R1, for Red One, but after R2D2.

One of the best greetings, to me: "How's my favorite redhead?"

I like being Red.