I mostly love the moon. I love sitting outside staring and soaking in its beauty. I love the softness of the new moon, I love the perfect crescents and I love the moonlight that shines through my bedroom window.
I have this fantasy where I’m walking with a gorgeous man in Paris, under the light of a full moon. I’m wearing a little black dress, he has his hand on the small of my back, and it’s a perfectly sexy and delicious evening.
Except it’s never going to happen.
Because the full moon makes me moody.
Each month, as it nears full moon, I go a little mad. Mood swings, my ex-husband would call it. Craziness, my children do call it. A mystery is what I call it.
I cry more and I feel unbalanced. The moon affects me. I don’t know why, but it does.
So last night while my hippie friends were all having spiritual epiphanies about the blood moon, I sat quietly, seeing the beauty but feeling unsettled.
And as I drove home, with a few tears falling out of nowhere, I stopped at a traffic light. There was a homeless kid on the corner, barefoot, wrapped in blankets, begging.
I had nothing to give him, but I looked him straight in the eye and gave him a smile. I made direct eye contact. Not something one does with street kids too often.
He looked directly back at me. And he smiled too. His eyes lit up and he gave me a smile so huge, so warm, so enormous, that it was like the fullest moon of all.
And there was this connection.
This amazing connection, under the moonlight.
We both felt it. It was one of those moments. It stayed with me when I drove away. I know it stayed with him too.
Not such a bad full moon after all.