Dear Luna,

I can’t sleep.  And the moonlight coming through the window is so bright, it beckons me outside.  Cold and clear.  The moon is full.  I wrap up in a blanket and plop down in a lawn chair.  I tilt my head to the sky and decide to ask her some questions.  After all, she has been around forever.  She’s seen me, right?  There’s an entire poem written about that.

So what does she think of my life now?  This last year has been one of the most unexpected, adventurous and interesting years of my life.  Yet a passion for what I thought would become my new future seems to have become my folly.  I feel a distinct ending to so many things.  I am not good with endings.  I feel a desperation as things fade away.

Dear Moon, wasn’t wisdom promised with age?  I know I can’t relive my past.  I can’t fix my mistakes.  I can’t change the path that brought me here.   But I don’t want to be okay with it.  I don’t want to passively accept the end.  Or failure.  I want to understand why I can’t control my little Jack-In-The-Box of crazy.

I don’t want power or wealth or fame or glory.  I am content with my coin purse of talent and my circle of friends.  I don’t want to live forever.  I want a never-ending supply of cheese, drivers who utilize their turn signals, a better fitting bra and an end to robo-calls.  I want health and happiness for my family and friends.   And I want love to continue to surround me like the blanket that I have tucked under my chin.

So why do I want more?   Why am I restless?  Why do I self-sabotage?  Why can’t I master a single crockpot recipe?

Why is it, when I am perched on a lawn chair at 1:30 am, or sitting in front of my keyboard, I feel clarity?  How can I bottle that up and take nips of it throughout the crazy of my day?  Why do I have the answers to questions asked so long ago that it doesn’t matter now?   Why are my super powers limited to random football game predictions, curing hiccups and the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?

As I ask her these questions, she seems to smile.  She is so calm.  I know she knows.  But she’s not telling.  What would be the fun of telling me?  She wants to see me find my own way.


2 thoughts on “Dear Luna,

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