Life ought be little more than arrhythmic motion, a path we only want to straighten, to smooth, its natural, necessary twists and bumps somehow, for we always see them as impediments not moments of joyous indecision where there are no wrong choices for each choice unfolds a new path never trodden, never imagined or foreseen.
A bird flies to where it needs to be, but for most that are not migrating, that place isn’t known until arrival and even then, save for nesting, it is the right place only for a day, a week, a month or perhaps only a moment, for a bird knows only this moment and this until there are no more moments.
She says her favorite month is May, when spring’s grip is tightest, but most of all she cherishes the rain. She is intimate with the rain, there is a privacy that only she can concede, if she wants. She can take a drop of rain and it is hers alone, she need only share it with the sky, it is always clean on her tongue. She may borrow rain from the trees, catch it as it slides from leaves, or watch it slowly tumble from the eaves of the house she remembers from childhood. She loves walking barefoot through fresh fallen puddles as it washes bitter memories into the willing earth.
As a child, I only wanted to stay up until midnight, actually a bit after that time, to see in the new year.
I didn’t need to be at my parents’ party, it was too loud and the adults behaved more like my kid brother and sister as the magic moment approached.
And it was supposed to be a magical moment, although no one could tell me why that was, or what made it special other than turning a page on the calendar.
I no longer try to stay awake until midnight on New Year’s Eve having long ago learned I don’t’ want to be around adults acting childish, and knowing January 1 is no different than December 31, save that I will miswrite the date on checks for at least a month.
He is worried, he says that we will be leaving on a full moon. I remind him that he leaves in two weeks, that this morning’s half-moon will be gone then replaced by its now absent other half. He says it should be full if it’s half now and half a month passes. His statements seem logical enough But the moon and stars have their own logic and don’t care what we think, that’s why I say, Luna never turns her back on us so she’s always half unseen, and she and the stars are willing to remind us they were all gods and goddesses once and could go back to that with very little warning.
It was the other evening, the first of two this month, they say This only happens once in a blue moon or a couple times every two or three years and often twice in the same year, So once in a blue moon isn’t that long but she said she could feel its pull, everything threatening to topple over and she moved very cautiously. I have to admit I didn’t feel very much, but I come from the people for who the lunar cycle is the norm, so the moon really proceeds as it should, it’s face having little to do with my time or tide. The moon will be full again later this month and I will pay careful attention to what I’m certain I will not feel then but will affect me in so very many ways.
He notes with alacrity that modern man has stripped all logic from time, rendering it an arbitrary temporal system based on mechanics, and even that is quadrennially imperfect. Once it was seasons, which came and went in orderly fashion, but heating was never a science then. Later it was the moon a reusable calendar and what was an odd month here or there if the crops were in the ground. Now it is sweeping hands that carry off the dust which is all that remains of our once logic.