What a moon we've had developing the past few days ...
clear, star-filled nights make for contemplative viewing;
being out late with the dogs, a delight for stargazers like me.
A few days back, while it was waxing,
I posted this image on Instagram
"what night feels like towards the end of winter when spring is on the cusp
but wearing her icy mantle ..."
because although nights still call for two layers of warmth,
daytimes are for shirtsleeves and wide-brimmed hats already.
The full moon last night was glorious and I was extremely grateful for a kind winter
with very few dark days ... both in the weather, and in my mind.
I'd like to share today's "mindfulness poetry" originally posted on A Year of Being Here,
for the record - my record. My winter of eleven winters here ... the first without seasonal angst.
Because it just might have something to do with acceptance.
: : :
Dear Ezra
I have to confess:
there are abstractions
I no longer go in fear of.
Take loneliness.
I've started calling it solitude.
It feels so new and improved now,
I can honestly say it soaks up time
better than a sponge soaks up water.
The other day I actually washed this poem with it.
Ez, let me tell you,
aging is a Laundromat,
and eventually you find yourself
watching what you spurned
and dreaded for years
spread out in widening gyres,
like sheets fluffed in the dryer.
Life is quite a bit cozier
when you let all the bugaboos-
you know- say, sadness and fear
crawl into bed with you.
Pace them with your breathing
and they fall asleep
fast as a couple of kids.
The other night we huddled together
staring at the moon
as it slid past my window:
big-bellied sail on a wet black sea.
~ by Eileen Moeller. Text as published in Poems of Awakening: An International Anthology of Spiritual Poetry.
