Thanksgiving: the Waning Crescent Beaver Moon

I stare at the dead bird in my sink, water cascading over its rubbery bald breast.  This bird came to me 'organically'; it spent its days free ranging at a local farm, eating organic vegetarian turkey chow. It spent its days growing in the sunlight and in the rain.  It spent its days living.  

But no more. I wonder if it was unsuspecting when rustled to slaughter.  Did it know that all its days were spent making my family and I one meal?  

This is our first organic, local turkey; despite preparing Thanksgiving dinner for over a quarter of century. The large frozen turkey-shaped blocks have been my staple for years. They did not run free, eat yummy turkey snacks.  These birds were raised in a cage, fed beef and chicken byproducts, given hormones to make them large and antibiotics to fight off the innumerable outbreaks of bacteria.  BUT they spent their days living.

No more. These birds are in some other house, some other sink, being hosed down as well.

I look at the empty cavity and feel an ache.  My heart is as empty as this bird and I wonder where I can find a recipe to fill it.  The turkey's stuffing is on the stove, ready to shove into its cavernous hole; but where can I find some warm and nutritious filling for my own vacancy?  

I sigh and let my mind move forward to the meal; the warmth of familial love is a blessing I can not take lightly. The bounty of food that will fill our bellies and spill into tupperware for numerous more meals is a gift that is not to be understated.  The hearth fire, where I will drop my overstuffed self to rest, is HOME in all senses of the word.  My tummy will feel swollen and uncomfortable, but a walk will set it right.  And then, we can begin again with sandwiches and pie...

I have love. I have food. I have shelter.  I have health.

Yet, the emptiness remains...fully of my own making; a luxury of my comfortable life. It is a puzzle to unravel over many future moons until one day I heal the wounds of my own knife.  And on that day I shall rejoice.

But for TODAY, I will pause and acknowledge every last blessing that has come my way, deserving or not. For today, I will be thankful. Truly thankful. For I am blessed.

I start by bowing to my dead friend in the sink.  Namaste, Turkey. 
AND continue by bowing to you...
May blessings be yours.

Darkness; the New Beaver Moon

The night has been dark.

I woke from a nightmare last night with a start. They say you can't die in your dream, but I was doing just that. I woke in the blackness, unsure. Then my partner made his unique snort purr and I knew it was not death...just darkness. Heavy.  Heavy darkness.

The night has been long.

Daylight savings time ended; the morning is more hopeful, but dusk circles early and captures us unprepared.  I am eating too much, like a bear preparing to hibernate.  Although I am in a nesting mode, I am also sleeping too much.  I am fidgety, waiting, restless.  

I am beaver. 

Hurrying to make my home winter friendly, safe, secure, warm.  Scurrying to find the comfort and joy in the coming cold and dark months.  This moon and the following Cold moon are the darkest in the year; daylight is still decreasing as the air grows chillier.  Perhaps that is why the solstice was celebrated so joyfully.  The promise of light overpowering darkness. Who couldn't find joy in that?

But first, we must prepare...

Found you! The Full Hunter Moon

I could not find this moon in my heart or in words.  

I could not find this moon in my actions. Just blind forward progress, for progress sake.  Stay busy. One step ahead of a creeping malaise.

The muse did not whisper in my ear.  The clever metaphor remained dusty and unused...probably in my disorganized kitchen drawer...resting near that extra piece of my last assembly project.  Nothing is more unsettling as an extra piece...where on earth does it belong?

I did not find this moon...

But it found me all the same.  Bright. Ridiculously bright.  Her lighthouse beacon scoured the surface of the earth, unyielding to mountains, flooding valleys.  Her light finding me in the dark of night, in the woods, tree shadows making me feel small and alone.  Where on earth do I belong?

"Here",  she replies "and I will light your path before you."

Lawnmower, O Lawnmower!

I noticed today for the first time that my lawnmower has a meter of some kind.  
It reads 26.4
Is that miles? Like a marathon and then some? or is it something else.  I took pause thinking I mowed 26.4 miles.  It seemed both too short and too long.

I did some research and learned that it is an hour counter.  That threw me a bit too.  I have been driving a lawn mower for over 24 hours?  Really? But that is a whole day!  

I visualized the places I could go. The things I could do.  Instead, I go round and round.  

Sounds like me.

The Recently Dead; Waning Crescent Harvest Moon

Dawn is just a promise as I finally pull off into a rest area along Route 90. There are three cars in the parking lot and as I move into the building, the lights and music assault me; too loud, too bright.

A toilet in the women's room keeps flushing itself on automatic pilot, but otherwise I am alone, in silence, in the woman's room.  In the stall, I wonder if this is how the recently dead feel upon entering the afterlife. Does U2 sing too earnestly about a beautiful day?  Are the recently dead agitated by a flickering fluorescent overhead light? 

Heading back to my car, it strikes me as unfair that my spouse, the Buddhist, will be in Chicago before my car has crossed into New Jersey. Yet, this arrangement was my suggestion. I thought we could extend our vacation by one day. I thought we would continue to have fun. I suggested he fly from Logan International in Boston while I finished the drive solo.

But something shifted once we left Maine.  Yesterday found us in suspended animation, waiting for the real world to unfurl before us.  Waking this morning at 4 a.m. and dropping him at the airport at 5 a.m. was dreamlike and hazy. Driving on 90 in the dark felt surreal. Anubis, are you near?  Is this reality or the veil?

Yet, here I am, the awakened, pulling back onto the highway, the rising sun and waning crescent Harvest moon sharing the sky.

I take a breath...the real world rushing into me.  Everything, even vacations,  eventually finds its end and I've got many miles to go.

A Glamour DON'T

"Hey, that is me!"  I squeal, surprised to see myself in the pages of a magazine.  The photo is of me at a street fair in my long skirt covered with batik prints from Indonesia.  It is patchwork, but sophisticatedly pieced. The earrings I am wearing are the antique Afghanistan ones and my necklace sports a Tuareg medallion I had found in a store in Woodstock.  My black cami contrasts nicely with my Mexican embroidered scarf and jean jacket.  My 'Goddess figure' is exceptionally flattered by the photographer's choice of angle.  The only thing amiss is the black rectangle box over my eyes; not kinky, just added in some version of photoshop to save the magazine from getting my consent.

Then I saw the caption: "DON'T.  The sixties  wants their stuff back"

Noooooooooooooo........

For those of you who do not peruse Glamour magazine, the end page is typically a series of photos of women wearing a particular kind of style. Half the women and their garb are dubbed 'Do''; the other half are dubbed 'Don't'.  A page might show how women are wearing animal prints or pencil skirts or fur.  Celebrities tend to be the 'Dos' .  Unsuspecting women on the street are 'Don'ts', with only their eyes photoshopped out to 'protect' their identity.  After all, the Glamour editors need to sleep at night without any guilt.

I wasn't really on the Glamour end page, but I certainly could be.  I dress 'different '.  I live in long skirts and treasure the intricacy of ethnic handiwork; embroidery, batik,  Thai and Indonesia silver.  I appreciate the beauty of the 'not so polished, not so perfect'.  Perhaps I find comfort in garbing myself in something that reflects my nature. Or maybe I just want attention (as I have been accused); but looking different is a way I stay true to myself.  I do not follow a trend. I do not blend in.  I will not be what some magazine editor has the audacity to dictate.

Do I occasionally  hear giggles as I walk by? Sure.  Do I also receive compliments? Absolutely.  Do they matter?  No. I dress for me. I dress for me alone.

The sixties want their stuff back?  No way. This stuff is mine now.

Imperfection: The Full Harvest Moon

I am imperfect. I've discussed this in the last two blogs.  I am imperfect inside and outside.  Like most of us, I fall prey to negativity. I cling.  The Buddhist likes to point this out when he sees it.  I sometimes find it annoying because he clings too, just to different things; but overall, I appreciate that he and I can constructively suggest improvement.  I want to improve, I truly do.

The key to this always seems to circle around self love. I have made huge strides here, but I am still holding back, ready to find the imperfection.  The trap is that I will always be imperfect.  That is the nature of being human.  The real challenge, the real work is to learn to love imperfection.  And when I succeed and find joy in the mirror, in my heart, I will find joy in your imperfection too.

And the world will suddenly be brilliant in its beauty...
like the Harvest Moon...
bathing me in light...