Raising a Moon Child

The moon is my mother. My devotion to her is eternal and natural and big. She shows me how to live. Thus, as she appears in the night sky, glowing gloriously and sending waves of energetic power, a healing power, I too take her cue with my own children.

If my sons pay attention to the moon, the ancient crone mother of the universe, the soulful mama in tandem with our paternal sun, they will learn to listen. If my sons spend regular time acknowledging the forces of nature, the turning of the tides, the fact that we are almost made entirely of water, they will doubtless awaken in time. The moon is not a swift teacher. It lulls us month after month until its voice is no longer an occasional whisper, but a nightly calling. The energy of the full moon brings two gifts: Intuition and Power.

First, we come to know things which guide us along. This is priceless and ultimately the greatest gift the divine can allow. The Knowing is so often within us, but it can take effort to hear it, to respect it, to let it make your choices. What was once a baffling calamity will become a precise clarity.

Next, we increase our magical influence on the world. With wisdom and humility come the effective impact on our goals, dreams, and relationships. Learning the spiritual way of moon worship will inevitably bring forth abundance and quite specific results.

One would need to suspend disbelief for a year or more lest they dismiss such gifts too soon.

The smaller world of my home with my sons mirrored the greater world of the moon and the rare few men who will allow its voice to be heard. We are each separate humans, but we are still one.

As a mother of three sons, I have been leveled by their differences, each one’s unique and sometimes delightful deviation from one another. I honor my sons’ strengths, dreams, politics, loves, intelligences and humors. But each one arrives in their own clothing, attitudes, essence and approach to life’s requirements. Yet, I remain detached just enough to let them be men. They each have their own life to live. I will not depend on their choices for my own satisfaction. The moon lives far away, and yet we see it right there.

The boys are on their individual paths. Their mother is the constant. In our home, we all understood certain codes of conduct. We knew that a loud voice was intolerable in the first hours of the day. We knew that no one was obligated to tend to tasks unless properly notified. Because we suffered with a common and sometimes crippling anxiety, we all rejected immediate demands as a rule. We also found deep satisfaction in performing tasks when no one expected it, thus strengthening the ideal that volunteering to help had its own glory. We each disliked the expectation of thank you cards. We respected brutal honesty. Fierce tears were unapologetic. Demonizing ill people was absurd. These were the common ways of our bloodline and they sat solid in our bones.

The moon does not concern itself with secular, human law. My sons are flawed indeed, and I could list several irritating and even alarming character traits for which I proudly lack bias. It is not my way to present my sons as ideal or perfect or protect them from your judgment. You will judge and that is unavoidable, but the moon does not reject our shadows.

Scars, errors and tragic flaws are a thing of fascination. Polished and pure sometimes reeks hollow. I am not ashamed of my sons’ weaknesses, nor do I feel they are entirely righteous. Yes, I have been quietly embarrassed from time to time, but I try not to apologize for them. I accept them. I know them. I don’t wish to take their choices as a reflection of me any more than my choices are a reflection of the great divine and blessed moon. And since I worship the moon, I also emulate the moon. I stand back at a distance from my children and attempt to remain a powerful guide, but hopefully not a pious one.

When my children, now adults, should act mistakenly or foolishly, I hold a distant view. If they escape death or permanent tragedy, I celebrate the depths of their consequential lessons. I believe all errors are fabulous forms of wisdom. If my sons stumble, trudge, slip and scuff about, they are blessed with growth again and again. Their souls are strengthened with each success and each healed wound. And when their wisdom comes, I am a silent orb of peaceful light.

If my child falls off a stone wall, cries out, and merely scrapes his knee, my private thought is not to protect, but to say, “Good. Now you know not to do that again.” If my son loves a woman who will shred his heart, if my son borrows more than he can pay, if my son partakes in distorted appetites, or speaks recklessly, I trust that they will also navigate the consequences, just as the divine intends. Mama Moon shows me how to mother. She does not diminish. She glows. She does not lecture. She lets the ocean waves heave and foam in an endless memory of her power.

Remember Yourself, Dear

My son who lives in a small rural town came to visit me in the city yesterday. He expressed an open disdain for the noise and commotion of urban life. Beeping vehicles and diesel motors and speakers from the green line blaring scheduled routes across the airwaves. People crisscrossing everywhere. Flapping birds leaving shit on the sidewalk. Trash on the park bench. A human being sleeping against a brick wall.

Granted, my son might have had a strong need for coffee, but for the first time, I felt territorial. I wanted to protect my idea of my own current home.

I waved his commentary away and bared down into my own pride.

We slipped inside to the privacy and control of my apartment.

Later that evening, hours after he had left, I walked along the street alone, heading home from a local venue.

It had just stopped raining and it felt peaceful. Sweet and safe. I had only a few blocks to go. The street was glistening with rain water. A lot of grit had been washed away. And I thought about how I could not bring him back to see this now. Only I would know the beauty of this gentler side of the city. The green leaves against the soft sky. All the people seemed to have gone somewhere else. The cars moved slowly now.

It doesn’t matter where I am. I can deflect the madness of the city’s burning fuse. I can absorb the gorgeous microscopic moments of the human race. I can just be here and know that I have everything I need within me to live. The universe will provide.

I do this thing when I walk in the city. It is something you are never supposed to do. I look people in the eye. I don’t smile. I just look. I know it is a risk. I know it can come back to bite me, and it has. More than once a stranger will rage, “What are you looking at?” Sometimes rare predators will think it is an invitation for the kill. Then I have to become ice and stone.

But my daring effort is only a glance. Half a second. To see if they are looking back. To see if they can tell I am just a soul who wants to know another soul. To see if they can tell that I am here on this earth and one day we will all surely die.

Most people don’t return my glance. Most people don’t look up at all. But every now and then, a person like me will catch the split moment and smile a little. Just the smallest glimpse of a lift on one side of their lips. Then some part of me knows that the world is still good. I cling to the memory of a past I once held loosely, when the world was safe and strangers said hello. After all, we don’t have that much time here. We are only puppets for the gods.