My Full Moon Party for the Flower Moon

I stepped inside the bedroom with my glossy blue paper box designed with silhouettes of some elegant people and around them an ornate golden border. Inside the box, I store the only two surviving handwritten journals of mine, one from a few years gone that was very hard to read but is fine to be there and another where I may write a bunch of spontaneous sentences for fun and at times also begin new poems by hand.

The Full Moon Party for the Flower Moon (in Sagittarius) began as I flicked on the lamplights and stretched comfortably on my zabuton cushion with the little zafu cushion on my lap; at times I would hold the zafu close to my chest, or rest it under me as I lied on my belly.

I had the many handwritten poems I’d recently translated on blank paper held horizontally with little spontaneous ink drawings I’d created as I’d found myself feeling the different moods of the poems. And I had a clear glass of water with me to drink. I leaned against the blue paper box to write, and then after awhile, I began a new poem of my own using apostrophe as if speaking to someone, and I came to the end of my poem, the first writing of it, and I will read it again another time and give to it what it needs.

I waited until the moon rose knowing that I wasn’t going to see the eclipse on the East coast but I enjoyed celebrating this in a very heart-centered, artful way, and also hearing from a friend who also celebrated full moons and mentioned the moon to me last night at the time I was also waiting for it.

I didn’t see the moon as there were many clouds and sometimes the moon moves over to a part of the sky that I can’t see from inside my room through the window.

As I celebrated, I listened to a couple of songs, Rosemary & Garlic – ‘Frames’ and ‘The Tempest.’ (‘The Tempest’ still plays a little in my mind this morning.) I’d also read a few of the poems I’d translated and I am okay now to climb up out of that book and return to it after a little time passes; there are many poems and I wish to read them all. I like to pace myself and savor what I love, and this is the way the book seems best enjoyed. 

I felt close to the words of the poems I’d read, the music I’d heard, how the sky looked as I glanced up at it; I liked how I was comfortably seated on the floor and yet not directly on it on my zabuton and the zafu close to my heart, the feeling of my pen and the ink drawings that would spring up, how the ceiling fan made the air more breezy as the air conditioner switched on and off, how I was celebrating a full moon, my quietly present friend in another place also celebrating this one called a flower moon, and how I had some desires and also felt not to hold them with fierce need but to love them as if with just my eyes.

I enjoyed this full moon that I could not see and all that the night brought out for me. I had wished for a mystical experience then but I also felt not to cling to that wish.

I also noticed last night that one of my new pillowcases which is part of a set of two matching ones was missing. These are such nice pillowcases, and maybe an uncommon thing for someone to steal, ghost or otherwise. I have checked everywhere in here, including unmaking the bed and redoing it, having never lost a pillowcase, and in my own home that is not very big, but apparently it is not here now. I have ordered more of them. Well, I hope this lovely pillowcase, laundered yesterday, is being fully enjoyed, or maybe will show up again.

As I brushed my teeth, rinsed my face, combed my hair, tied my hair back loosely, and went to bed, I thought, I will speak quietly, even if I am alone and all the more better for words; I said what I wished and when I finished, a flash of lightning lit up the room much brighter than the daytime sun and then the dark returned, and it began to rain incessantly, the rain poured, and the wind was so loud in the trees; I didn’t look out, but I’d imagined the trees were pushed hard to a sway, as I heard some thunder.

In the middle of the storm, with a very quick flash of lightning and then the room dark again, I felt a touch upon my feet, my feet were resting together, and it was a quick, but gentle, kind touch, sweeping over the tops of my feet toward my toes and again. 

This is what I love, to love things, and to sometimes be drawn into a writing, or a person, and to read one who writes of the things you think of and may write yourself, or that also reminds you of someone far away and rises up warm appreciation in you so that they feel near and then also far, and tears may come, and you may miss things or people or a place or all of these, but your heart is full and it doesn’t keep it to itself; it goes on ahead of you, and replenishes you and your dreams that night (whether or not you remember them), and the ordinary, sometimes difficult at times day to come.

This is what I love, to love things, and to sometimes be drawn into a writing, or a person, and to read one who writes of the things you think of and may write yourself, or that also reminds you of someone far away and rises up warm appreciation in you so that they feel near and then also far, and tears may come, and you may miss things or people or a place or all of these, but your heart is full and it doesn’t keep it to itself; it goes on ahead of you, and replenishes you and your dreams that night (whether or not you remember them), and the ordinary, sometimes difficult at times day to come.

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