I love new moons. (This one was 3-1-2014.) I love being aware of new moons.
I like that in an astrological, psychological, spiritual, and folkloric sense, it’s an opportunity for new beginnings. Remember, this isn’t just some idiot’s idea but the actual moon itself, lined up on the same side of the Earth as the sun every twenty-nine and a half days. The weight of the moon is said to be seventy-four sextillion kilograms, or eighty-one quintillion tons. It pulls the oceans from their beds, over and over and over. Behold our planetary cultural inheritance! Sometimes I wonder if we even recognize it anymore.
I have to tell you, though, when I typed “folkloric” up there, something twitched. What do you suppose that means? And then I remembered going out to play on summer evenings, running wild and playing games. We’d be outside and see the sunset, watch the moon come up. There were trees to climb and fireflies to put in jars. We knew things, you know? Big things, true things. Stuff that didn’t come from someone else’s head.
Be that as it may, we were going to take a drive today, and then it snowed like crazy. Never mind, she’d do the laundry. My wet underwear drying on racks beside the wood stove, my fat butt in the chair, everybody cozy. After nodding off too many times while pretending to work, I finally gave in and took a nap. A whole hour underneath a blanket on top of the bed. It was fabulous, I tell you. Nothing like it on a wet and cloudy afternoon.
So I’m standing in the bathroom afterwards, looking in the mirror with my hat on, right? And it feels like something got delivered in my sleep.