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.

Dragons are Real

I like to have imaginary conversations with imaginary friends, and sometimes I pretend people I know are with me at a moment in time, when in reality, they are not. Because I know the power of imagination. Because I know the magic of belief.

The other day, I was running across the Wabasha Street Bridge, trying to place only one foot onto each giant square of cement. Rarely do I look up at all, except to see how much farther the bridge stretches. But one time when I did look up, I saw a dragon in the sky, soaring free! Naturally, a little boy who shows up in a lot of my dreams, I mean like, all the time, was running alongside me with unusual speed. He does not have a name, but he is curious and innocent and for some crazy reason, it is always my job to protect him from some horrid predator, and he isn’t even mine. I have no idea why it is my duty; nevertheless, here we are.

He pointed into the clouds above the bridge and shouted, “Her Ladyship! It looks just like a dragon!” This boy, by the way, is British.

I stopped running and let myself walk at a fast clip, huffing away as if I once smoked cigarettes for over 30 years. I then stated under the duress of poor lungs, “It doesn’t look like a dragon! It IS a dragon.”

Now he was up ahead and stopped and swung his tiny scrunched up face back to me. “Are you telling me the dragon is real?”

“Well, yes. I mean, you are not actually real, but that dragon is definitely real.”

He smiled then under his little tweed cap, and patted his little tweed chest and tummy and his little pale legs with tall black socks to confirm he was in fact just as real as this dragon in any case.

“Stop it now. Dragons are as real as we decide, my good chap!” Sometimes I use the language of the Brits, since it helps him feel those good things he misses back home.

“Do you think the dragon will breathe fire upon the city?” This boy just never lets up. I am not sure what he would do without me. Seriously.

I sighed. “I’m not sure, but I hope I am here to witness such an event should it occur. If he flies away, and he very well might, we should go to the park and lay in the grass and then also grab some ice cream back home.”

“We only have maple nut, and I would far prefer big chocolate chunks.”

“Then we will pretend it has chocolate, and we will take our sweet time with it.”

“I would like that so much! Bloody hell!”

Sometimes he throws a curse on the end of his sentence just to see what I will do.

Thank you, BoyWithNoName.