Tonight I was bringing in the dry laundry by the light of the full moon. My eldest son came home for the weekend with a basketful of dirty laundry. Yes, I could have left him to do it and yes, he would have done it – but sometimes I enjoy helping out.
Anyway I only got his washing out after 5pm and then did another load of our clothes. It’s now just after 9pm and his washing is dry. Tonight is a very warm night. Inside its stuffy, outside it’s not too bad. If there was a breeze it would be perfect.
I love the moon, especially the full moon. Bringing in the washing by its light reminded me of my childhood when I would dress up in an old white lace dress of my mothers and dance in the light of the full moon, singing to myself. I must have been quite young and, looking back with grown up eyes, I must have escaped through the back door or somehow evaded my parents at that time of night. It was my very own private time; a monthly ritual.
I still draw comfort and solace from the moon. It seems to have magical powers. The silvery white light softens harsh concrete edges and caresses flora and fauna alike. I used to make believe that I could see the man in the moon. I would turn my head to one side and the other, squint slightly and crane my neck backwards, trying to make out his face in the shadows of the moon’s craters.
When I was old enough to drive I would often go and sit at the beach in the moonlight. Sitting on the sand, listening to the whoosh of the waves bathed in moonlight is a very special experience; more so if the night is balmy and the breeze is soft.
Nowadays I rarely get the chance to sit in the light of the full moon and soak in the magic. Life is pretty hectic and I’m usually trying to fit in one more household chore before I go to bed. But tonight I think I will sneak into the backyard like I used to do and, even if I don’t dance, I’ll still look for the man in the moon.