Well, today some of us might have looked up, for the moon. A blue moon, a super moon, a blood moon. All of it, all at once. I looked out the window of our front door at 6 am and saw it bright, beaming through the neighbor’s oak tree branches.
”Maybe it’s a little bigger, but it’s not red or anything,” my husband says behind me. His clothes smell cold from outside, he went up to the garden to get a better look. Worth the chill and the time
Texts later asked if we were watching the NASA live feed. But I was taking my son to school, praying our morning prayer for his buddies, his teachers, and that he’ll remember to pee.
The significant and insignificant all at once and which is which?
We sleep through a lot of things, muffled to the wonder of existing. Breathing 96 times an hour, blinking and feeling and grasping. Dreaming and doing and we just absorb it all. Noses down, scrolling, a little mute and numbed. That’s me, snoozing and stressed. Existing.
Then, at 9:25 this morning, there—through the dirty pocked glass of our windshield: there—the mid morning light on tree trunks...and I was awake. I noticed. I felt the air in my lungs.
You do this too, I’m sure of it. But knowing when it’s coming is a mystery. It’s not from some newscaster in a studio reminding you of a phenomenon of astronomy, it just happens. And we marvel, we stop and remember. At the significant and the smallness. The aching marvel of gravity and existing.
I think this is what writing is for me, a nudge to noticing. Do you see that? Have you felt like this before? Does this ache familiar? Like a child gathering parking lot gravel and twigs and moss bits. Look at this look at this mama look. Watch me. Not seeking but sharing. Delighting.
We have to slow down, we have to help each other. A poke between the shoulder blades. Look! Look.
Let’s nudge each other awake.