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| "Embracing The Moon" an essay by Lindseye Greye (written about an actual event) |
| It was revealed to me in the late summer of 1989. At the time, I was performing with my first “road” (traveling) band, and we were playing at a beautiful ski/golf resort in northern Michigan. The band’s accommodations were what our agent referred to as “off property”; in this case, we were way off property—more than ten miles off—hidden away from the resort guests at a chalet in the middle of the wilderness. We traveled from the lodge toward the bandhouse on a narrow road, which eventually turned to gravel as it snaked through the dense and isolating woods. As my partner navigated the corrugated terrain, I peered into the pine curtain and caught glimpses of several large, luxurious chalets nestled between the trees, which appeared to be vacant. This was the off-season for the resort—too cool and rainy for golf and too warm for skiing—and as far as I could tell, we were the only humans inhabiting these woods. After seeing all the lovely homes of our “neighbors,” I had high hopes as we approached our temporary abode. My hopes—and morale—lowered instantly when I saw our tiny chalet. Although I had never considered myself much of a “city girl,” our accommodations were a little more rustic and primitive than those to which I was accustomed. I was used to living in hotels—even motels, when necessary—but this was a lot more “in touch with nature” than I had expected. Still, we did have all the basics, including running water--even if it was an unusual shade--and a color TV (of course, we were so far away from civilization that only one channel was watchable.) The band only performed five nights a week, so we had ample leisure time in which to commune with our wilderness environment. On one of our evenings off, I decided to venture out from the bandhouse for a walk. It was a clear, brisk night, and I thought a few lung-fulls of chilly September air would be a nice change from the musty air of the bandhouse. I took with me my usually evening-walk gear: a Walkman, loaded with Berlioz’ “Symphone Fantastique,” and a small notebook which served as a sort of journal. In those days, I tried to always have a pen and pad of paper with me, just in case I had an inspiration for a song or poem. Endless and lonely days and nights on the road, sequestered in stuffy hotels, motels and (alas) wilderness chalets, afforded me an abundance of time to ponder the intricacies of the universe…and goof off. Consequently, the pages of my journal/notebook were brimming with a plethora of unfinished sentences, unrhymable words and incoherent wisdoms. Nonetheless, I never left home without it. With notebook and pen stowed in my waist-pack and my favorite symphony blaring in my ears, I strolled from the house toward the gravel road. Just as I stepped out from the thick wall of trees that lined the driveway and road, I froze. I was mesmerized—paralyzed—by the scene I beheld. My motor function returned a few seconds later; I reached to my waist to switch off the Walkman, and I removed the headphones. I was briefly startled by the ubiquitous silence that fell upon my ears, and the stillness momentarily eclipsed my senses. It seemed as if the entire universe and its beings gasped with me for that span of a single heartbeat—though an eternity surely passed in the quiescence. Before me, gently dividing the shadowy forest, the pale ribbon of white gravel road stretched forward for miles. The road was flanked on both sides by walls of tall pine trees that also extended as far as I could see. And at the end of the road, hovering majestically just above the tops of the trees, was an enormous glowing sphere. The gaunt and radiant form of the moon seemed so close that I could almost see the indistinct outlines of structures on its vast face; I perceived them as swirls and shadows and smudges of sallow grey against the surface of pale and lustrous white. The luminescent power of the moon completely obscured any stars, which might have vied for recognition, making the giant pearl—the extraordinary and perfect soul of Night—the only object visible against the cloudless black sky. I felt as if I had become part of a beautiful and serene dream. I felt its coolness and power. I was filled with its light and beauty. I was vaguely aware of my arms, rising from my sides, reaching toward the brilliant orb. It was so alluring and its spell so potent; I wanted to somehow bind myself to it—become a part of it…or maybe make it a part of me. So I stood there, arms outstretched, and I embraced the Moon. I have no idea how much time passed—a moment or an eternity would have been the same—but I shuddered when the clamor of Night’s music crept back into my ears: the crickets restarted their drone; the wind breathed a subtle lyric across the yielding pine branches; a few isolated birds mingled their nightsongs with the breeze; unseen creatures resumed their business, rustling and swishing covertly among the woodland floor’s debris. I inhaled deeply, wondering suddenly if I had been breathing at all before now, and watched the vapor of my exhalation mingle with the Moon’s incandescence. A crystal breeze wafted over my face and body, and I shivered. Unbidden and without warning, a verse entered my mind, as if the wind had carried it to me—through me—and I knelt to record it in my notebook. Phrases and words suddenly appeared behind my eyes, with no order or form; I felt like I was sketching a fleeting, yet familiar, still-life model as I hurriedly scribbled. With illumination provided by my inspiration, I penned the verses without pausing. I didn’t try to organize the words into coherent passages; I merely transferred them onto the paper, certain that a poem would emerge. The lyrics tumbled from my heart in a warm and cleansing cascade, and I wrote until I was drained of it. Upon finishing this catharsis, I looked up again at the Moon, which was now higher and seemed more distant. The Night’s sounds became abruptly louder, and the world seemed darker in a profound and subtle way. I closed my notebook and stood to leave, pausing a moment for a final survey of the still-stunning panorama, engraving every aspect of this event in my memory. Several years later, when I finally completed and titled the poem, I found it remarkable easy to recreate the scene in my head. Although I am not blessed with the ability to create a physical depiction of it, such as a painting or sketch, I have a perfectly framed and focused photograph in my mind. I can see the scene as clearly today as it was 9 years ago. I can even hear the nightsounds, smell the crisp pine-scented air and feel the chill of the late-summer Michigan night. I frequently recall those moments when I felt so blessed and so grateful to have such beauty shown to me, and the emotions always fill me in the same way. I have wondered if I could have been the only person looking upon the Moon that night. It certainly seemed to at the time, and I romanticize that to be true now. If I did unwittingly share the vision of that Moon with another, I must wonder if the felt as I did in those moments when the perfect beauty and terrible splendor of Night were revealed to me. |
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| "Embracing the Moon" 2000 c. Lindseye A. Greye |
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