“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


moonlight and triage

i have no picture tonight, but it's not needed. 
we are all under the same moon,
so just step outside and let that knowing be my picture. 
if it is tomorrow, remember the light falling to earth. 
we are in the same place.

this morning's black butterfly escaped the cat's claws, and the promise of rain was just empty grey skies.  the oak tree across the street is down at last.  i am thinking in twitter time, short sentences, short thoughts, but living in moon time, blurs, milkiness, no way to know where it ends or begins.  tonight's moon seemed to tip the top of the fig tree in my mother's back yard, pouring moonbeams onto leaves gone yellow from thirst and heat.  i move the sprinklers here and there, back and forth, hither and yon, but it is never enough and never right - i am a triage nurse for the trees and grass; tonight i stood under an oak tree in her front yard and the leaves dropped water in thanks for their turn today.  tomorrow a different spot.  and then nothing more until midweek when i will stand and make decisions once again. 

but perhaps it will rain -  an easy thing to say when night is around me, when darkness disguises the need and anything seems possible.  last night life as i once knew it seemed once again possible.  a break in the heat and i was into the late dark, under the moon; it smelled like the heat of maggie's last summer, when she and i would sit together in the blackness, and it came to me that that was two summers ago, that i had lost last year to grief for her and this year to grief for my mother, standing hand-in-hand with heat.   too long, but grief's footsteps cannot be measured - it has secret strengths, it is sneaky and sly and ruthless.  but it is not immortal; last night i stood with the moon, the one that lives in my mother's backyard, and it felt just fine. 

tomorrow, who knows? 
the butterfly may be the cat's breakfast.



  1. I just left the movies, and when I came out, the moon was bright and high in the sky. As I drove home I drove into a storm, no rain, that was always ahead of me, but horizontal lightning kept criss crossing the sky.
    Yesterday, Brett killed a yellow swallowtail butterfly, and left me just the wings.
    I cried.
    Grief is not immortal, the moon knows this.

  2. Beautiful, Debi. Standing under the full feminine light that soothes us all...Here we all are; holding our places to be soothed up to that light together...

    And I would just say that time spent in grieving is not lost. It is a pregnancy of the deepening spirit. We roll in the black, amniotic unknown...growing until we completely fill the space; curled tight, fully formed.
    Then we birth ourselves.
    Life outside the womb is never the same, but we had to be there.

    Sending full moon, amniotic love to you.

  3. Oh lord, you may have coined a new phrase; "thinking in twitter time"...

  4. I am no longer surprised at the coincidences or serendipities between a few of us. And poor Brett - I wonder how much he feels like Skyecat, dealing with his own grief and lonesomeness. Looking for security - bringing "gifts". Not knowing there is nothing to worry about.

    Skye - Time spent in grief is never time lost - you are so right. So right.


  5. It appears that the waves of grief are alternating with waves of healing. And so it shall be.

  6. Oh my, once again your words have taken my breath away.

  7. your words always evoke some emotion in me. often pensive, often a sadness within myself that i cannot fully explain or understand..but you do. your words do. like Mrs. M. i cry at things others never even see.
    this writing was particularly beautiful. very deep. thank you for the words.
    in fond regard, Tild


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