Tag Archives: moon

Always Changing


She shines silently in her fullness
gracefully illuminating all who behold her,
breathing a healing glow,
touching whisper soft,
dancing quietly on the waves,
disappearing, reappearing
in her perfect timing.
This most glorious mother
who moves the water
deeply longing for her embrace
needs nothing
but gives everything—
darkness and light,
the wisdom of always changing.

Full Moon Winter Solstice


On the longest night
the feminine light
shines full and bright and clear.
The Divine Mother radiates
her love and healing light upon us
and reminds us
that we are never alone.
I am grateful
for the beauty
of this longest night.
As the new day dawns
I remember the light of Spirit,
brighter than the sun,
unchanging, eternal,
ever present.

Twilight Birdsong


It’s noisy inside
with the Beatles record
spinning in my husband’s
newly refurbished turntable,

so I take myself outside
on our front porch
to write at a little, round,
glass-topped table.

I settle in, feeling muddled
and even a little blocked,
and I scribble some words
filling a couple of pages in my journal.

Suddenly I hear it
woven through the blue evening sky,
crescent moon
shining just overhead,
some bright star glowing courageously
in the sea of blue–

twilight birdsong,
there the whole time,
only now there is
enough space in my head to hear it.

Contemplating Doorways (A Penchant for Questions)


Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt resonated with me.  We were invited to construct a poem where each sentence was in the form of a question, except for the last one. Ask a bunch of questions?  Heck yeah!  I love questions.  I see them as open doorways to new experiences.  If we have the courage to step through the doorway, we might discover another world just beyond the threshold.  Here are some doorways I’m contemplating tonight…

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Contemplating Doorways

What do I write when I’m too tired to think?
Why have I made this decision to show up again for my writing practice?
Where will this practice lead?
Is it worth it?
My teacher told me that trying to accomplish too many things makes none of them good–
but is this true?
Couldn’t there be some good in this writing, even if I’m tired?
Could my thoughts rise up in some small glory, even if I think I can’t think?
And just who is the thinker of these thoughts?
Who moves my fingers across the keys?
Who chooses these words?
Who decides upon each letter, each punctuation mark?

Enough about my writing, what about my meditation practice?

I’d like to think that my meditation sessions, taken all together,
add up to some good.
So even if when I sit tonight all I do is try to stay awake,
even then, won’t that moment of showing up for meditation,
won’t that count in some small, beautiful way?
Isn’t beauty found in the smallest of details?

Enough about meditation, what about the moon?

I look for the full moon shining in her beauty–but where is she?
Concealed by the clouds, she doesn’t fret…
I hear she will be eclipsed tonight, but does she worry?
She doesn’t.
She reflects the light sent to her,
and accepts the shadows cast upon her
with equal calmness.
Could I do the same?
Light and shadow, two faces of the same coin–
could one exist without the other?
And what questions will go unasked
as I decide to end this poem?

Enough of these questions, how about some answers?

I have no answers, only more questions,
glowing in my universal mind
like a galaxy comprised of four billion stars.
In my youth the lack of answers used to feel discouraging.
But now I’ve lived long enough to realize that it is
only is recognizing that I don’t know
that I give myself the chance to one day know.
Each question is a doorway to another world,
and I have asked many tonight.
Maybe I will step through some of these doorways in my dreams
and awaken with even more questions to ask,
even more worlds to explore.

Almost Full


A bright star hangs next to the almost full moon.
Neighbors with their music turned up loud
dance and play football in the street.
My body aches;
maybe I shouldn’t have demonstrated that yoga pose for my students tonight.

It’s evening, the children are asleep.
The whirr of my essential oil diffuser is strangely comforting.
Oils of chamomile, jatamansi, frankincense,
Oils of myrrh, lavender, silver fir
Minute, fragrant particles suspended in the air on fine mist
My little meditation room becomes an exotic garden
in the middle of an ancient forest

Here I grow into my own
Here I remember the phrases of metta:

May I be free from danger
May I have mental happiness
May I have physical happiness
May I have ease of well being

May you be free from danger
May you have mental happiness
May you have physical happiness
May you have ease of well being

May we be free from danger
May we have mental happiness
May we have physical happiness
May we have ease of well being

Like the moon, I am almost full.
As I recite these phrases,
I sense the potential for them to
take root in my consciousness,
to be woven into the fabric of my self.
But there is a little sliver of darkness, of fear,
of holding back from the fullness of surrender.
Maybe if I wait like the moon waits
The blazing light of consciousness
will illuminate all of me
when I’m ready to be completely full.

Moon Poem, Winter’s Last Embrace, Non-Attachment


I look for the full moon, but she is hiding behind clouds,
like a queen lazing behind the gauzy curtains encircling her bed,
she refuses to make an appearance.
Her subjects long to see her bright, lovely face
but tonight she ignores their pleas, and won’t lift a single finger.
Cruel queen, shine your light on me.

Are you a prisoner of circumstance?
Do you long to be seen but are kept shrouded from our eyes?
We have no choice, we could not see each other if we tried.
My little hands cannot make the clouds part,
my breath cannot blow away the mountains of snow
looming in my sight.
Little round queen, I will wait for you.

For now I close my eyes and see you glowing in my mind.
My remembrance gives me hope.
Through this cold and cruel winter
I’ll keep warmth in my heart,
and in the golden glow of a candle,
Moon mother, I will sing for you.


It’s a full moon tonight.  I’ve been teaching moon salutations in my yoga classes in anticipation of this, honoring the cyclical nature of the moon, how she swells to fullness and recedes into darkness over and over again.  Acknowledging that cycles of fullness and emptiness are natural, we learn how to embrace our own moments of fullness and emptiness on all the levels they can manifest.  Right now, I am full of the breath.  Right now, I am empty of the breath.  Fullness and emptiness, giving and receiving, forever.

I often find myself longing to see the bright full moon, shining in all her glory.  I love how she is so bright that her light casts a shadow of the window frame on the carpet of my meditation room.  On such nights, I sit in her light, turning my face up to her, focusing my eyes half open on her glow, and it seems that this light is an endless stream from the heavens all the way to my heart; she beams a divine smile on all those who look upon her.

But I cannot see the moon tonight, for she is concealed behind thick snow clouds.  The sky appears orange in the glow of the city lights. The forecast tells us that as many as six inches of snow will fall tonight, and my heart is sinking–I just want the spring to be here!  I want to see the crocuses and daffodils. I want hyacinths and tulips.  I want to watch the apricot tree blossom,  the sweet puffy white blooms shining against the backdrop of a pure blue sky.  I am sick of winter.

But here is another chance to practice non-attachment.  Enjoy this last bit of winter, feel the cold.  Bundle up.  Leg warmers, scarf, gloves, hat, long down coat, boots.  Pretty soon this will be a memory, and the contrast of the cold of winter held against the warmth of spring will give rise to a more authentic enjoyment of the spring when it arrives in full force.  Non-attachment.  Be okay with what is.  Love what is.  Allow it to be.  Breathe.

When I long to see the moon but she hides behind thick clouds, I feel abandoned.

When I want the warmth of the spring sun yet snow is falling all around, I feel slighted.

If I want happiness, I must awaken to being, and receive this moment as it is…because as Byron Katie says, “Fighting reality hurts, but only 100% of the time.”  I will not fight, because fighting will not help.  I will open my arms wide to the snowflakes, and say, “Come on then!  Come on!”

Breathe in, breathe out.  Fullness, emptiness. Forever.


I am the Moon


The moon shines brightly out my window, still mostly full; there is only the tiniest sliver of darkness to show that she is beginning to wane.  My throat aches from the illness I’ve been trying to fight off this week, and my body is tired from teaching two yoga classes and attending one in between.  I’m awake, trying to reach for something meaningful, but my brain is tired, and the idea of sleep is so seductive.  It is nearly 10pm.

My husband is downstairs watching TV.  He let me know tonight that he is depressed about my whisking myself away to write for hours at a time every night.  He thinks my writing is eating up the little available time we had together in our busy lives; and between my morning and evening meditation practices, this writing practice, and all of the yoga classes I picked up in the fall, he questions if our relationship will survive.  I was able to listen this time, to not react with anger, resentment, or defensiveness, but  inwardly I was feeling deeply disappointed.  I want him to really get why I’m doing this work, and I want him to celebrate my resolve, my dedication, my desire to transform.

In my mind, every time I sit down to write I awaken to who I really am a little bit more.  I become more available to myself, and therefore I free up the energy to be available to others.  So what is the disappointment in hearing my husband’s assessment of my writing project?  I guess I want his approval.  Perhaps deep down I don’t think I should be doing this work, and he is showing up to echo that deep-seated doubt; he is showing up to help me out of my delusion.

The moon changes from day to day without thinking.  I celebrate her when she is full and bright, and I adore her as a crescent that hugs the horizon and dances with a multitude of stars.  I wait for her when she is obscured from my sight, faithful that she will return.  This absence becomes a deep exhalation, a moment to empty, to let thoughts lie fallow until they ripen into ideas, actions.

I want to honor myself and the people in my life the way I honor the moon, to celebrate the many phases we go through, to accept them as just as natural as the moon’s journey from a thin sliver to resplendent fullness and back to darkness again.

I breathe, remembering what I heard my husband say.  In the end he wants more time to be with me.  And so do I. I want more time to be with me.  So how to strike the balance?  I’m learning to not rely wholly on my mind to find the answers to these questions, and also to not expect an instantaneous response.  As my life goes on I see more and more how we live our way into the answers.

A question becomes a window or a door, waiting for the light to arrive, for a visitor to show up.  A question is an opening in my consciousness for learning to take place.   At times during my life I have been overwhelmed by all of my questions, impatient, wanting answers, dejected, seemingly powerless with this encompassing not-knowing.  I wanted to eliminate the questions by finding perfect answers–I wanted to know.

But it’s different tonight. Tonight the question is a friend, an invitation to just sit, observe, soften, open.  I do not know who I am,  and for some reason I’m writing, trying to find out.  I know I cannot make my husband happy by sacrificing my deep desire to explore, so I receive these words and ponder them, and ask if a good night of sleep will lend clarity to the picture.

This is a fine place to be.  Hopeful.

The moon continues to shine when it is time to shine, and to retreat into darkness when it is time for darkness.  No thought, just pure being.

I want to be the moon.  I am the moon.