A Field to Rise From

"And here I build a platform, and live upon it, and think my thoughts, and aim high. To rise, I must have a field to rise from. To deepen, I must have a bedrock from which to descend. The constancy of the physical world, under its green and blue dyes, draws me toward a better, richer self, call it elevation (there is hardly an adequate word), where I might ascend a little--where a gloss of spirit would mirror itself in worldly action. I don't mean just mild goodness. I mean feistiness too, the fires of human energy stoked; I mean a gladness vivacious enough to disarrange the sorrows of the world into something better. I mean whatever real rejoicing can do! We all know how brassy and wonderful it is to come into some new understanding. Imagine what it would be like, to lounge on the high ledge of submission and pure wonder. Nature, all around is, is our manifest exemplar. Nor from the fox, or the leaf, or the drop of rain will you ever hear doubt or argument."

-Mary Oliver

There is always a wanting to come into new understanding. For as long as I can remember, I have been juggling my various passions and pursuits, sometimes finding that one or the other receives 90 percent of my time and effort. When the seasons change, the passions change. And with the passion's change, the body changes. And with the body's changes, the psyche changes. I know a lot of you understand this seasonal eclipsing of self-hood. I am never satisfied, always wanting more. The process of consuming in one area leaves reserves empty in others.

Last night was the lunar eclipse of January's wolf moon. I had fallen asleep on the couch with Silas but Brian--who was covering the eclipse for work--woke me up. It's happening, he said. Come outside.

The moon donned a reddish appearance during the eclipse. This compilation of the eclipse comes from @wxknapper, a gentleman who works atop Mt. Washington in New Hampshire.

So I got off the couch, uncovering myself from my warm blankets. I cursed at my boots, struggling to put them on my uncooperative feet. I opened the door and gingerly walked on the ice into the -27 degree (wind chill) air. At first I was annoyed that the simple act of looking up at the night sky did not produce a glowing, eclipsing orb. I had to search for it. In the cold. Keep in mind, I was exhausted, half-awake, and only seconds ago, warm and supine. But then I saw it and I immediately felt connected to all the other eyeballs out there gazing at the sepia glow. I imagined gas station clerks taking cigarette breaks and gaping at the moon. I imagined drivers, their vehicles carefully crawling across the ice, but oh the moon. I imagined kids who were for some reason still awake, asking their parents why the moon was red. I hoped that there were conversations. That the mom or dad took the time to look it up on their phone. Or that the mom or dad made up some kind of story, regardless of facts. I hoped for stories. For connection. Children need such fields to rise from. I hoped that the children weren't told to go back to bed.

I worked all day, came home, went to the gym with Brian to run a few miles, came home, made dinner, showered, finished reading a book, and kablooey, it was 10:00 pm. 10 pm and there's still so much I want to do! But I'm growing tired and starting another book feels more relaxing than layering a canvas with black paint for a project I want to start or continuing to write an essay I started. Dude. I'm sleepy. My desires to learn, do, and fulfill do not get the time they need or deserve. I just called myself a snot for saying that. Here I am, a childless woman with no dire obligations, complaining that there's not enough time in the day for my self-indulging hobbies. But it's the life I choose. I'm not hurting anyone. I'll gladly sit up with you and talk about the moon.