In the Shadow of the Strawberry Moon

The Strawberry Moon is waning, while the Buck Moon hovers in the-not-too-distant July, waiting his turn.

The elk seem to know their moon is rising as they wandered down the Spring Creek Trail Monday morning. I had a chance encounter as I ran by, turning my head at just the right moment. Two buck with their velvet antlers lay in the bright, green grass. It is a rare treat to see elk in town among us city dwellers with all of our noise and oblivion to the furious beauty of the summer. They twitched their ears at me as I snapped a quick photo. 

Nic says I cannot describe Nature in terms of gentleness and peace. I cannot say, “The gentle warmth of summer.” He reminds me that the natural world is a brutal world where most animals die terrible deaths of great pain and a lot of starvation. I must be a realist and accept this reality. That guy kind of ruins the metaphors I churn up, or the symbolism I try to pull out.

Summer is boiling by at a speed I don’t really appreciate. We are past the Solstice, well into the Blue Nights of Joan Didion. The promise of spring has burst forth and the serenity of summer will soon fade into fall. The picnic table on my front deck has been my favored spot for witnessing the climax of the season. Many hours Nic and I have passed sitting on the deck reading, writing, knitting, and chatting. Him on his phone, me with my feet on the table, winding wool between my fingers, or scratching away in my journal. 

My kids come and go and gather there with us. They are like the flowers bursting around us with their lives blossoming and bursting forth with learning, growth, laughter, and memories. I sometimes watch them around the table in the setting suns of summer through the open door while I cook for us. They shout in to me, “Do you remember that, Mom?” And we all laugh, and sometimes we cry. Our dogs wander from person to person to maximize their pets while the children are home. 

The richness and fullness of this life is unbelievable. I want to remember it forever. I want to capture this happiness in a bottle. Cork it tightly, and hide it under my bed. It is bad luck to be this happy. If the Good Folk, the gremlins, the devils, or soul-suckers of the world find this golden joy, I know they will try to steal it.

If I turn on the radio, the rest of the world might tune into to us and hear our unrequited laughter and thoughtful conversations - or our pure silliness. They would send news crews to see what could make anyone so happy. They would ask us to write down the secret of happiness, and that would poison it. Inevitably, with their arrival the world and its affairs would also show up. The Kardashians would flip their hair and flash their fancy new faces. Trump would steal us and send us away for some misdemeanor - maybe that red light ticket I need to pay. Judges and lawyers would advise us against such blatant disregard for the state of the world and our Country today. We would have to sign affidavits and disclaimers. 

The neighbors suspect. They see us as they walk by. I try to shush the family. *This* is a secret. Do not tell your friends. Nic and I occasionally have to fight so the neighbors don’t think our lives are perfect. We try to make sure the windows are open, or the landscapers, or AC guys hear us. We fight about: the coffee stains on the counter, my books scattered about the house, the dog getting skunked in the park, my proclivity for wine.  We need witnesses to our troubles. It is hard for these fights to be believed. I cry and gnash my teeth to add more credibility. I complain to my friends, “Nic and I had another fight about the coffee maker today.” They try to sympathize. We hired a couples therapist. She asks us, “What shall we talk about today?” I sigh and say, “I’m sorry, but today we have to talk about what time I wake up. Nic doesn’t like it.” You can tell she has a hard time taking us seriously. She does not have a hard time taking our money, though.

No, the bottle of hope I am cultivating must be hidden and saved. Jon Snow warned us, “Winter is coming.” I will likely need these drops of happiness sometime in the season of the Wolf Moon, when the ground is hard and frozen and the days are too short. I will pour out the precious drops into my hands and sip softly. I will hold my hands to Nic’s mouth, too. We will stash the remnants back under the bed, the weather and times are unpredictable these days. One should save their happiness and hope - don’t drink it up all at once in the desperate winter days.  We will drink sparingly in the shadow of the Strawberry Moon when hope was somewhat easier to find.