March 07, 2018"When you have this kind of darkness, you can really see," I say into the recorder.
"It's when you have this kind of darkness when you can really see," I repeat, hoping to capture this moment to expound upon later. To use as fodder for a column or a reading in yoga class.
I'm recording it because if I don't, I won't remember what prompted it. It's a weekend, a Saturday night to be exact, and on weekends when I'm able to relax completely all sorts of profound ideas and concepts come to mind. "Profound," relatively speaking. They're so "profound" that I don't remember them when the new work week begins because the clutter of the mundane quickly collects in the mind. Did I wash that sweater I want to wear? Is lunch made? Ugh, that story I still have to write that's just not coming together. Have to stop at the store to get water and cat food. Don't forget to make that deposit so you can pay that bill...etc.
By the time I'm sitting in front of the computer at the work desk, all lofty, "profound" thoughts that touched or tickled me over the weekend are vague and almost transparent, rolling like fog across my brow.
This time I want to remember. I want to remember how grateful I am for this glorious darkness.
I'm not talking about the 'dark night of the soul' or the depressed, hit rock bottom bleak sort of darkness, though I've in the past been intimately familiar with both. I'm talking about the literal darkness of night. The deep, velvety darkness of the vast sky above me, dotted only by stars and the glossy light of the moon.
I'm peering out my living room window, and then gravitate toward the kitchen to look out the sliding glass door. The darkness is intoxicating, mesmerizing. There are no street lights. No blinking cell tower beacons. No bluish illumination from a neighbor's television set glowing through a living room window. There is no neighbor's window to see. Only trees, my pond, and the silver disc of the moon.
"When you have this kind of darkness, you can really see," I repeat again. "This is when you can really see."
Really see the heavenly light that washes over the earth, softly kissing the night sky.
The shimmering contrast between the loosely woven tapestry of tree branches and limbs as they crisscross the land. Moon shadows so illustrious that they glisten, their glittery threads burnishing a divine work of art, a gift from the Universe, from God, from Nature. A gift literally from above as the moonlight floods the property. A mirror, a lake of light so subtle yet profound.
Only in this unadulterated darkness can I see the beauty of this moment. The random brushwork of Mother Nature on this grand tapestry that is my yard, my paradise, my heaven on earth.
In this darkness I really get to see the beauty it brings. The ever changing shadows as they grow and stretch across the snow-covered ground as the moon shifts across the sky like a whisper.
Oh, this late winter moon. A welcome visitor warming the frosty earth, beaming its silent message of peace. A Peaceful Moon again, as always, allowing me to really see.
Email Catherine at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Catherine Minolli is Managing Editor of the Tri-City Times. She began as a freelance writer with the Times in 1994. She enjoys the country life, including raising ducks and chickens.