A pale light streams into my bedroom. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours. I sit up to witness the weeping willow glowing in the ashen light beyond the glass doors. The moon hovers above the fence line, drawing me in, as a few clouds skuttle across. I fumble for my notebook on the nightstand and write down the sundry thoughts which have stalled the embrace of sleep tonight.
I understand existence, but why consciousness?
God is not a bad idea, religion is.
Wearing a mask properly says these things about you. You’re not reckless with reality or the lives of others.
History teaches us that those who preach hate and violence (like Trump) are, in the end, consumed by it.
Gardens are a form of art and autobiography, an act of optimism awaiting the future.
I think of my last conversation with Dean and laugh out loud. He’s decided to grow his fruit and veg biodynamically, which means to garden according to the phases of the moon. He quickly disabused my assumption that he was prowling around at night with a flashlight amongst the raised beds. Rather he was generally doing key functions in the garden, like sowing and transplanting, during the waxing phases of the moon, i.e., when it’s getting bigger and more visible. Just as the moon influences the rise and fall of tides, he said the moon has a gravitational effect on moisture in plants and the water table. He was so into it, that I said I would give it a go, starting with a few above ground winter crops, like bok choy and spinach.
Maybe moon gardening is just what I need during this time, when the world is so sick at heart.