Better Times Are Coming

The moon goddess told me so.

It’s the first warm evening of the year. A big white round moon dominates the twilight, pink-brushed sky. I walk into the backyard to close the chicken coop for the night, and the big fat orb above catches my breath. I sit down, right there in the dirt, and can’t tear my eyes from her. I call the moon a “Her” because that is how we were introduced. I wrote a song about her called Shine All Night. I have a secret prayer name for her when I burn cedar, and the smoke tendrils drift skyward, carrying my good wishes into the ethers. She has been a dear friend to me since I was old enough to hold my head up.

Once, when I was struggling to find myself, I stared at her for so long, she actually talked to me. I mean, seriously - I could see a face emerge with a soft mouth that whispered something to me. What did she say, you ask? I have no idea. I was too old to believe my own eyes and too young to listen.

Tonight she just quietly stares back and reminds me of a time when we could gather with friends and think nothing of it. Like that night ten years ago…

✬ ✬ ✬

We crested the hill chatting and laughing, then broke out onto the flat-top ridge soaked in silvery light. I don’t remember who suggested doing a full-moon hike, but I remember walking up the old BLM mining road in the dark with six of my good friends. We wore headlamps on our foreheads, but no one used them. The moon was bright enough to throw light down through the towering old-growth Doug Fir trees and illuminate our way up the mountain.

The top was flat because it was a marble quarry eighty-four years ago, still hammering away in the ’80s. Beautiful white limestone was violently extracted with dynamite and dozers, flattening the top of the ridge, now abandoned and left to hikers. At the far end, part of the mountain protruded up, creating a small overlook. Our pack of pals scrambled up the embankment, unearthing loose stones, sending them rolling, smacking into larger rocks below.

We sat down in the dirt, lodged our hiking boots against random pieces of white marble, and pulled wine bottles out of our daypacks.

“Hey, I brought Merlot and Brie and a box of crackers.” Emma has great taste in cheese and all things snacks.

I answered, yanking my offering from my pack, “I have a bag of grapes and cookies. Oh, and some Tamari almonds.”

Others unloaded snacks, fruit, and several dark chocolate bars. Emma pulled out a wooden cutting board and loaded up a delightful cheese tray. I don’t remember what Danielle brought, but being the chef of our crew, I have no doubt it was delicious.

The moon was a big white marble in the sky. We were sitting on a mountain of marble rocks, and I giggled to myself how on some level, we were the opposite of Oreo cookies sitting there sandwiched between marbles. Yes, before you ask, there may have been a toke or two by this point.

Each of us dug our hands into each other’s food, throwing almonds or crackers in our mouths, then digging back into snacks again. We sipped each other’s wine, tasting different brands or flavors. We sat knee to knee, talking about large carnivores, and weed, and “the old days” blocking logging trucks in town.

The moon just hung out, high in the sky, and listened to us laugh. A soft summer breeze whispered through the pine needles, and an owl screeched down below us in the ravine. It was sublime — a perfect summer night with friends.

A few hours later, we packed up, scurried down the marble slope then plodded down the old mining road. It was late. We were drunk. Or maybe just tipsy. I remember how our loud voices cut the softness of night. How radiant and happy I felt stumbling in the dark down the mountain with my besties. How it just seemed like a regular night in our rural country lives.

At the bottom of the hill, we all hugged each other, climbed into our cars, and drove home to sleep it off.

✬ ✬ ✬

It’s been just over a year since I’ve hugged one of those friends, shared a wine glass or sat close enough to bump knees. The moon is higher now, still staring at me sitting in the dirt in the backyard. She knows. Oh, the stories she could tell! One year to her must be like a heartbeat, a split second in the eons of her life. One year to me - this last year - felt endless at times, like there was no “before” that year. Only “right now.”

“Change is coming,” she whispers. Nothing, not even 2020, can stay the same in this universe. Evolve or become something else entirely - ground rules if you live in the Milky Way.

I’m not shy about personifying the moon. Humans have been doing that since third-century BC. The Greeks named her Selene, the goddess that drives her moon chariot across the heavens.

Someday I’ll ask to hitch a ride. But not this night. This night I’m aching to climb a mountain and sit between the marbles with my friends, sip each other’s wine, and speak of better times, which I know are coming… soon. The moon goddess told me so. ☆

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(Photo by Muhammad Ali on Unsplash)