Moon Shadows

The things you forget, eh? Epiphanists like Wordsworth and many others have long espoused an interesting Christian philosophy; one where we are perfect and in the hands of God prior to birth. We are in the universal. We have perfect knowledge. At birth, we are ripped from the bosom of the eternal and thrust into this mortal and bizarre world. (We are coming back, those of us there in the before will be there also in the after – I love the Calvinists and there fixation on predestination). As children, Wordsworth and the rest would opine, we are closest to that perfect state. As we age we fall farther and farther from grace. We experiences snatches, or epiphanies, of universal knowing less as we age. These moments of epiphany, more likely in youth, are god-ly moments and provide glimpses of pure truth. An aware adult, reflecting on the loss of the likelihood for these epiphanies and aware of the experiences of youth gleans truth vicariously through observing children, or, and this is really a more modern variation, through living more child-like in the hopes of not losing connection from truth – falling from grace. Just a lovely and intuitive bit of mind trickery. Certainly an idea easily deranged by the, ‘Everything I learned, I learned in Kindergarten,’ hip-pocket self-help pseudo-psychiatrists - infantile charlatans really, sellers of snake oil. But as a basic human truth, this one is a hard one to refute by those of us sensitive to these kinds of things.

Tonight I rushed home from work, and dashed past family and out the door on my snowshoes – I have a lovely wife, understanding to the extreme. It was not an easy or comfortable transition. I left work frustrated by the typical mélange of millennial wage earner grief. Nothing like the trauma associated with watching a coworker eaten by a loom or broken after hours toiling in the field, just a lovely daily soul sucking torture in the times of enlightened management in a socialist country. Entry to the garage was barred by a pernicious prevailing wind that blows a nearly omnipresent drift in front of our garage door. Shovel. Shovel. Eventually I find myself stumbling towards the brilliant fire of the sky at sunset across the backyard on my snowshoes, mind a-buzz with work garbage, anger with weather and shovels, and a fair helping of guilt to have not seen the family all day and now to be walking away from them on said snowshoes. And I don’t have gaiters and snow has found its way inside my fancy pants, around my nifty long underwear and past my highly technical outdoorsy socks and is currently freezing my 40-year-old ankles.

This silliness continues pretty much unassailed by the beauty of the sky, the perfect-ness of the snow and magic of the movement for almost 3/4 of an hour; mind moving even faster then my feet and the snow whipping across the snow. Then, Moon Shadows. When did I forget that on crystal clear nights with nice big moons (not full tonight but big and bright none the same) you cast absolutely perfect shadows? There I was silhouetted, in my perfection, on the crisp clean canvas of the snow. It was like those awful TV movies, as we the viewer, from the bandaged actor perspective, wait for the world to be re-revealed as the bandages unravel before our eyes and off the camera lens. It was like seeing the world anew. The sky lit by moon and distant planet and suns, heavenly. Trees and farmers fences catching the light and dancing, waiting for the artists fingers to capture the obvious beauty. Snow crunching and heart singing I chase my moon shadow home. To warmth and love and riches beyond measure. Winter can mean cloister, and SAD. Or ya take snow and darkness at 5 pm and stolen moments and make health – physical and metaphysical if you are lucky.

We send love

B