Full Moon Morning. December 31, 2020.
In the early morning.
6:41:34 am: front and 6:44:03 am: back
Feeling the edges inside me I step outside and begin sinking into the morning views.
One from the front of the home that holds us dear. The mountains make a backdrop there.
One from the back looking out toward the sea. The wind is announcing itself. I’m grateful it rained the other day.
The full moon hasn’t set.
Turbulence pushes to end the turbulent year.
There’s the chaos of noise and unhappiness and disease. There’s that all’s well sensation again. Stepping outside makes me happy. Eye of the storm is resting in my heart.
A year ends. A new one will begin and I don’t understand the line between the two but I can sense it a little bit within the middle of my body. A thin, slightly jagged line. Black. I wonder how to make the fantasy that will allow me to believe there is anything different for tomorrow morning.
We will rise fresh hoping sleep will have made the difference. How can a number do that? And yet, I begin to imagine some ceremony for tonight.
The air is delicious when I step outside and I don’t remember even one thing but this.
The moon is right there watching. The wind is gusting fiercely. The fragrances of dirt and not very distant rain.
The lines from T.S. Elliot echo.
“And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.”