Updated: Sep 10, 2020
The other day I had a conversation with the moon.
I looked up at her, longing for answers, hungry for an inkling of closure, ready for any scraps she was willing to share.
“Throw me a bone. A love line. Something.” I begged.
All I could get back was her stoic, grandmotherly, stubborn stare.
Being human is hard. I mean really, really hard. Yes, there are so many beautiful, fulfilling, worth it moments but when the hard times come, especially if they are back to back…to back, it can very much feel like a tornado that won’t let up. I am old enough now and have gone through enough valleys to know that the peaks are around the corner. How many miles until that corner shows up I am unsure of, but one thing I do know, they are waiting patiently for me.
When the valleys hit, everything feels so up in the air. Everything that once felt like home, everything that felt safe, is up in the air. Even though I am “older and wiser” I still feel the sting. I am human after all. And even though I know better, the heavy days are not any lighter. I often refer to earth as a school. If you follow any spiritual teachers, you’re most likely familiar with this reference. It’s a valid one. I see myself and my fellow humans as school kids, enjoying recess and lunchtime whenever we get the chance, and doing our best to make it through math class.
The lessons are always here, through the beauty and the pain, they are waiting for us. Through our encounters with others, we face ourselves. This earth school is one of endless self-discovery, where we must remember to enjoy the ride while making the trek through the funhouse, where a sea of mirrors stands ready to embrace us. Sometimes the reflections are funny and enjoyable, and sometimes the desire to turn away is visceral.
While the journey can often feel like a climb, it is one that I am thankful to be on because when the dust settles and the peaks welcome us with love, everything makes sense again. I think that’s what we have to cling on to. Even if it is with blind faith, we have to cling to the fact that the peaks, the love, will come around sooner than we expected in forms we could have never imagined. Love is what anchors us, love is what grants us the feeling of safety and the space to bloom. Love is what holds us down when the tornadoes try to sweep us away.
When I look at the moon, she gives me just enough warmth to know I do not need to be saved because I am here, aren’t I? She stares at me with stubborn maternal eyes that imply she is not afraid of letting me fall because the next move is to always, eventually, stand back up. She stares at me with eyes that don’t back down, eyes that force me to show up, backbone required.