Cold Moon

This past year I've been celebrating full moons with yoga in our garden under a 200-year-old oak tree, bare feet crunching acorn caps--very satisfying--scattered on the moss, blankets under mats to soften the above-ground roots, essential oils and incense burning to keep mosquitoes away. None of which work by the way.  I offer yoga under the full moon to people I still like to see. Covid has changed how I think about people and how much I want them in my life.  I'm sure they feel the same. My phone isn't ringing off the hook, just for the record. 

All full moons ask that you look over the past month and see what's working out and what you should discard.  The Cold Moon, the December moon, asks that you look over the past year and do the same.  The Cold Moon isn't fooling around, either. There's no place to warm your illusions. 

I’m working with a writer now who is writing about her experiences as a hospice nurse, and so death is on the table. Under discussion. Paul told me about his mother who, in later years, had a list of her friends on post-it notes on the nightstand. Towards the end, most were crossed out, with “gone” written next to their names. When the last one was crossed out, she died too. It was as if she stopped existing. 

I think of the first night I was on shift as a nurse’s aid. At 3 o’clock in the morning, the RN sent me to take the vitals of an old Greek man in 23A. There were only nightlights on, so I never saw his face. He was naked under a light blanket. I picked up his wrist to count his pulse, strong at first then it escaped. I dug deeper chasing his pulse until it vanished. I didn’t feel sad until his family came in, crying loudly. Then I started bawling. 

I knew my ex-in-laws for years, had enough breakfasts and dinners with them to know the rhythm of their conversation; so when my mother-in-law died and my father-in-law was being tended by nurses who thought that he was demented talking to himself, but I knew he was talking to her. I always wanted to write a play about that. 

I used to think that we are defined by material things: our surroundings, our clothing, our belongings, our music, our taste. When I asked a freshman comp class to write essays about what they would feel like wearing their parent's clothing, the revulsion was real. So, I think material things partially define you.  But I think now that the people you surround yourself with define you even more. At Blue Heron Book Works we say, “You are the story you tell about yourself,” and I am expanding that to “You are the story others tell about you, too.” It’s a Cold Moon out there. Time to look at who's riding with you.