It's November in Oregon's Willamette Valley, past midnight, cloudy. I've stood outside listening to the wind, to the rustle of the few remaining leaves whispering like a lover. The moon is full behind the patchy clouds and as they rush east they obscure and reveal the moon's light. I orient myself in space, find the directions that will lead me to bed, to my wife, maybe a pit stop in the baby's room to listen to the softer wind of her breath as she sleeps.
The moon holds me entranced. It flits out from behind the clouds that race across the sky. I can't help but think of time, of transience, of how this too will pass. I've been hardened by the days and weeks of labor and effort. I've been lacquered and shellacked by the demands of the immediate demands of the day. I think employment and mortgage, benefits, health, security.
But the moon peaks out from behind the clouds, never completely unobscured, but I can feel the cool light penetrating me, and so when it disappears behind the clouds again, I know that I retain it. It is the lover, the muse, the midnight inspiration, and all is not lost. All is not forgotten, but remains like a fingerprint on my heart. A reminder of what I am, what I want to be, that I am my own light, a beacon to myself, and a font that can be suckled in times where winter's oppressiveness demands that I stand alone.
