The moon does not perform for anyone. This is what I love most about it. On even the most theatre-lit night, the moon simply rises, follows its arc, disappears. It has no interest in how it looks from below.
I started keeping a lunar journal two winters ago — not an astrology journal, I want to be precise about that. Not a journal of predictions. A journal of moods plotted against phases, which is a different and more honest thing.
What the Full Moon Knows
It knows, or seems to know, that fullness is temporary. This is its great lesson and its great comfort. Nothing stays. The borrowed life — the life we borrow from sleep, from other people’s stories, from dreams we almost remember — it returns, sooner or later, to wherever borrowed things come from.
I think often of Marlene Dietrich in this context. She understood something about how the light falls and how to stand inside it without explanation.
