by the time it was late enough to see both, we were tired. saturn and the moon were supposed to be sharing close space in the night sky, but it was cloudy and we seriously needed to sleep. the show went on without us, somewhere behind the clouds a glorious celestial ballet.
and the universe carries on with universe stuff. our planet earth still rotates on its axis and moves through its elliptical revolution around the sun with gravity keeping us in check in the solar system. through no effort on our part, it all just happens.
but when the universe picks up high-powered binoculars and zeroes in on planet earth, i wonder about how it views what’s really going on. when the universe dons readers and looks at the fine print of what humanity is really doing to its mother earth and its inhabitants, i wonder if there is a sinking feeling, a loss of hope, gossamer strands of what-is-goodness floating off and off, sans gravity.
lucky for us that – despite insane efforts at denying climate change, an abhorrent lack of environmental responsibility, vicious bigoted and hideous genocidal initiatives, flippant care of wildlife and natural resources, what seems a staunch dedication to a lack of peace-on-earth – we – on this floating globe – somehow are granted another day.
it’s no surprise we’re tired. it’s no surprise a lot of people are tired.
it was late night on the train platform. though we had walked from the station when we arrived, our boys dropped us off for the way back home. the train was a wee bit late and there were a few people on the platform waiting, some a bit impatiently. we were tired but not impatient, grateful to not be driving home from the city.
the clouds and the moon got together, plotting a bit of choreography. nearly full, this waxing gibbous was extraordinarily bright, backlighting the cotton balls of clouds passing in front of it. with wildfire smoke particles catching the light, an orange glow encircled the white moon peeking out, the glow much like the salt lamp emits in my studio. we stood on the platform, waiting for the train, completely captivated by the sky above us.
in recent days i have been reading old journals. journals almost fifty years old. these were the days when i passed through teenage years. when my days and nights were long and full of adventures: dancing at discos and early sunrise photo shoots, beach-camping and scuba diving, fishing and arboretums and county parks and apple-picking, skiing and my red round transistor radio on a picnic blanket. they were days of my little blue vw bug and growing-up-nuclear-family time, guitars and poetry, climbing trees and frisbee and term papers, bike hikes, the mall, my dog missi and a plethora of friends. i was often writing in my journal at 2am, wide-awake, reviewing my day, waxing poetic, loving life. it is a pilgrimage into the innocent.
my late-nights are different now, indeed, than way back when. sleep is now something i really adore, much more so than when the most minimal amount seemed – maybe – necessary.
because i am reading and reading and reading, i am feeling somewhat immersed in back-then.
these days i turn on the salt lamp that sits on the chifforobe. i don’t do it every day, but right now seems a good time for it as i hold space for the going-through of things of the past. from this vantage point – looking back – i know the shatter of innocence comes. the voice in my journal changes.
the glow stays with me as i pass by the studio door.
and now, as sleep eludes me at night, i lay under the quilt and gaze at the moon illuminating the blinds.
years ago now. it was almost inky night, clear, a bit brisk but not windy. as i moved from the bank into the middle of the flow i noticed it. the moonlinefollowed me…everywhere i went. despite all the time i had already spent at water’s edge and on the water, it was the first time – in my memory – that it became apparent to me – this moonbeam shadow of mine.
and i think of you – my love, my children, my family, dear friends – next to me or somewhere else in this world – looking at the night sky as well. this same moon. with your own personal moonbeam shadow. and i am heartened by our sharing of this. for if we are looking at the same moon, then certainly we are not too far from each other. under the same sky, the same stars, the same blanket of galaxy.
so as i stand on rocks next to lake michigan i am reassured by this season of the full moon. and as i think of you, i whisper along the beam, hoping that the moon will deliver you my words.
“…when the moon dances in your hair, i will be there…for all the days of your life, for all your life …” (kerri sherwood – for all your life)
the sliver of moon was suspended in the sky like an add9 chord. hanging out there, being all gorgeous.
add9s are my thing. extending the chord, a little bit of tension, unresolved.
though i am often astounded by a full moon and i love all the phases tugging at those of us here on earth, it’s the sliver that always charms me. just this wink of a moon out there, inviting me, luring me to stop and stare, making me notice the stars gathered, like a moon fan club, all vying for my attention. like an add9.
we spent most of the weekend at home, save for a bit of celebration time friday evening and an impromptu sun-urged lakefront sunday afternoon. with home our rock, we reveled in it. we worked in and out around the house on this glorious weekend, alternating chores with the adirondack chairs placed strategically on the deck or the patio, depending. it’s only april, so this weekend was unexpected, its weather a winky-moon-add9 gift.
and walking down the driveway under the night sky – a clear night in the ‘hood – heading into the backyard, right by the ghetto fence, right before we turned, i looked up. the moon glanced down, tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “it’s all good,” and then it danced back into the galaxy.
and – like a shooting star – the add9 lingered, fading eventually into black.
“it’s full tonight. so we go and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven. thus we sit, myself thinking how grateful i am for the moon’s perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich it is to love the world.” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)
we are on the west side of lake michigan. it’s the cold side, the side with many rocks, big boulders. the sun rises over our lake. the moon rises over our lake. and there are days – magical ones – when the moon is in full phase – a giant ball, moonlining to anyone on shore. wishes that landed on stars seem destined to come true. loving to-the-moon-and-back is potent and visual. it would seem – on those nights that the moon takes over the night sky and all else shrinks – that – in the purest sense -peace really could guide our planet and that love really could steer the stars, constellations with invisible reins tethered to reaching hands and hearts on the shoreline.
we drove home from the snowy trail and the moon was just starting to rise over the trees in the distance as we drove east. across a snow-filled farmfield, beyond the stand of woods, there it was, more intense each minute, dynamic through dusty rose and salmon and blush, finally flushed more golden. i kept driving east, directly to our lake.
we weren’t alone. there were other peace-and-love-rising seekers there and we all photographed our individual moon photos – the same beauty-shudder-rich sky as it turned to night over the great lake, its surface slightly rippled by calmer winds.
and we had a conversation most of the night – the waning moon and i.
right outside my pillow window it invited me as it moved from one glass panel to the next to the next. it wasn’t full wolf anymore; its pull was less intense. but it was present and bright and we were both awake, the moon and i.
we talked about time and life and breakfast. we talked about children and moving and empty nests and career. we talked about friendships and family and my parents and loss. we talked about being 19 and being almost-63 and meaning. we talked about legacy and dust and snack-time and happy lights. we talked about winter and the fireplace and the bathroom faucet. we talked about this town and decades and northport harbor and beaches. we talked about dogdog and sleep-running and we talked about babycat and empty space on the quilt. we talked about the pandemic and quiet and distancing and confusing questions. we talked about filling in the moments between spending time with others. we talked about horses and donkeys and lakes and cantering-land. we talked about mountains and porches and houses-we-know-well and courage and change. we talked about pianos and blogs and cartoons and value. we talked about grey hairs and jowls and pounds and wrinkles. we talked about gluten and dairy and glasses of wine and achy mornings. we talked about hiking and dreams and the pacific crest trail. we talked about decisions and successes and regrets and things-that-won’t-ever-make-sense. we talked about people and betrayal and forgiveness and remorse and sadness. we talked about plans and intentions and indecision. we talked about how laughter feels. we talked about gratitude and random texts and the littlest things.
and, again, we talked about time and life and breakfast.
and then we both slipped off into sleep…me – into my pillow, and the moon – sliding past the last windowpane.
in the category of vices-to-get-us-through-the-winter, you will find the occasional french fry binge. these are not the side dish. instead, they are front and center at happy hour…shoestring happiness. there is something about carbs and sea salt combined that will – yes, i know it’s temporary – raise our spirits to the point of giddy. much like the sheer joy my best friend susan and i would experience on giant bike hikes back on long island when we’d pull into the mcdonald’s parking lot and head inside to order large fries and a chocolate shake, d and i wait for the oven timer to go off and do the french-fry-happy-dance when it does. it’s the same. i am back at 14. sea-salty fries and a beverage-of-choice – in this case a red – give us moments to ride up the carb-escalator-of-glee and we have no remorse.
i needed fries on friday. comfort food for a complex day.
somehow i have hurt my foot and, after researching hand-in-hand with google numerous times, icing, resting and advil-ing over the past not-quite-two-weeks, decided it was time to see a real-live doctor.
i made an appointment at a medical clinic i’ve been going to for the last fifteen years or so. my former doctor, a woman, is no longer practicing there but there is a male physician i’ve seen and i figured that since he had an interest in sports medicine he would be a fine person to evaluate my foot, start the process of proper care. the receptionist told me they were “coding” me as a “new patient”, even though i wasn’t. so i asked what implications that had – on my insurance, on this specific visit, on me as a patient. i am a big question-asker. she informed me that there were no implications whatsoever.
cue up debacle.
i’ll skip to the part where i was in the examining room explaining to the nurse about my foot and two other concerns i had wanted to address.
she asked me if i had fasted.
“fasted?” i repeated back. “no…why would i have fasted?”
“for the bloodwork,” she replied.
“bloodwork??? what bloodwork???” i inquired.
“the bloodwork for your physical,” she stated flatly, staring at me.
i stared back, likely with a blank look on my face. “i’m not having a physical. i’m just here for my foot,” i calmly explained, a nagging sensation beginning in the pit of my stomach.
“you’re a new patient. you have to have a physical,” was her retort, followed by “you’re running out of your appointment. what do you wanna do?”
continuing to have eye contact i asked, “why wasn’t i told there would be a physical? why, when i specifically asked questions about the implications of the terminology ‘new patient’ wasn’t i told a physical would be necessary and that i should fast for bloodwork?”
she then threw the front end folks under the bus saying, “they’re receptionists. they don’t know anything.”
evenly, but with a growing nagging sensation now at the nape of my neck, i asked, “if THEY don’t know anything, how would i?”
“look, this isn’t urgent care. what do you wanna do?”
a few moments and a few queries later and it was obvious that this appointment – for which i hadn’t been instructed to fast and for which i hadn’t prepared the laundry list of questions and concerns one should bring to a once-a-year physical – would be the only one health insurance would cover for this year.
i hadn’t been properly informed. i didn’t find that acceptable. this health care system’s “safe care promise” states “see what to expect at your visit” and “clear previsit instructions” will be provided. hmm. not.
i left.
after d picked me up at the curb outside the center we sat in the parking lot for a few minutes, processing.
“your health and safety is our highest priority” reads the front page of their website. it would seem that patient-centered care would be their ‘thing’. yet, these were moments when (and i grant you that the entire medical community has been and is in overwhelm – as are all of us living through this pandemic) a nurse in this circumstance could have responded in a hundred different ways.
responding to me, as a patient trusting the information i have been given (or not given, for that matter), she could have apologized for the lack of clarity represented to me. she could have not thrown her colleagues, regardless of the pecking order, under the bus. she could have suggested that they waive the physical for this particular appointment since i had actually seen this doctor before and since they had at least fifteen years of records on me at that location, offering a chance to return for a physical at a later date. she could have given the doctor the choice. she could have ensured that the patient’s pressing need – the reason for being there – pain and an obvious concern that made me limp slowly down the hall apologizing for not being able to keep up – was addressed.
she could have.
but she didn’t.
“you are at the heart of everything we do. we treat each person as a person, not as a patient, an illness or an appointment. anything is possible when we apply our imaginations and knowledge toward our purpose of helping people live well. at advocate aurora health, we’re embracing bold, innovative ways to connect our consumers, team members and communities to their health. where we’re going is for the daring. advocate aurora’s goal is to have zero events of serious patient harm by 2025. this is advocate aurora’s “true north goal”. we also call this our “moonshot goal” since its just like putting a man on the moon.” (directly from the website)
and so, french fries were clearly on the happy hour docket longgg before happy hour.
they didn’t help my foot but they sure helped my spirit.
it beckons. the moon, no matter, will seek you out. it has no agenda but to light your way. it has no preconceived notion, no prejudice. it is out there for all, for anyone who looks up. it offers stability to this good earth’s axis, regularity to the tide, illumination to the inky sky.
the moon’s romantic presence is the stuff of wishes and the pronouncement of love all the way to it and back. its moonline will find you, wherever you roam. always, always, it appears to light a path directly to you. each of us must be equally as important, then, for the moon shines for and to each of us. a gleaming line, luminous, brilliantly reaching to us. reminding us that no matter, on this big beautiful earth, we are all under the same dark sky, the same unlimited galaxy of stars, the same moon. we are closer to each other than we think and we all have even – at very least – these few things in common. how reassuring to know that we all, despite where we are, stand on different ground but gaze at the very same moon.
were the divine-in-all-the-universe to have a living room and be gazing out the window, i suspect the divine-in-all-the-universe would say, “i see the full moon out my window and in it, you.”
when fred rogers aka mr. rogers used to sing, “it’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day in this neighborhood. … would you be mine? … won’t you be my neighbor?” i remember singing along. it seemed he was from a different time. a time when neighborhoods were truly communities.
we are lucky to live in a neighborhood that includes neighbors who are friends. dear friends. we gather on back patios and back decks, inside around dining room tables, huddled next to firepits and in each other’s kitchens. we talk, we laugh, we try to solve the world’s problems. our neighbors aren’t all the same ages, so we are at different times in our lives, which adds wisdom and perspective and good learnings to these times we spend together. i have no idea what we would do without these wonderful people.
last weekend after linda and jim’s impromptu gathering, we walked down their driveway. lighting our way was this moon, shining across the water, over the rocks, directly to us.
i am writing this ahead of time…in anticipation of a so-much-looked-forward-to trip to the high mountains to spend time with The Girl and our new granddog lumi. when you read this, we will be almost home. and there are a few things i know for sure.
that i will -for sure- awake at night, as i often do, and i will relive the time we spent in those mountains. i will relish the time i will now have in my memory bank, the visions in my mind’s eye. i will cherish the bits and pieces i will have brought back for our special box. i will hold dear the photographs i will have taken.
when the moon wakes me, i will be endlessly grateful for any and all moments in the little town she calls home. i will run conversations and laughter through the middle-of-the-night quiet. i will catch a hint of the cool midnight colorado air on the breeze through the window. i will feel what it feels like to, once again, hug my beautiful daughter. and i will store it all away. so that in the night – any night – i can recall all of it.
reverse threading 