One of the more powerful experiences in my recent life of travel was the chance to dance in the light of a full moon on the beach in Bahia, Brazil, a beach all but void of any human form other than my own. The moon was huge. Exhilarating. The reflected light of the sun reflecting again in the tidal waters, right where the ocean became a river and ran alongside itself. Lots of reflections of reflections. I’ve not been one for doing things in my life that may qualify as Wild Woman. Until the birth of my children. Nothing that Sark wrote about, until this past year. Nothing resembling the dark goddesses except Manic Panic and an unruly high school boyfriend or two.
Yet this moment held me in a culmination of the lunacy of this full year of birthing two babies at the same time. I was as round and as full as the moon, in the months before they were born. I howled like a ruddy Bhairavi during their birth. I bled. And bled. And bled. And bled. And met Kali.
I often sit in self-conscious bittersweetness, in my 900 square foot, certainly suitable apartment; homebound more than I’ve ever been, oscillating between my attempts at busting open hearts and minds and tuning up bodies in the few courses I am still teaching, and then coming home to watch teeth grow; to watch hair grow. It’s fantastic. And paradoxical. Home is the best kind of cultivating heart-full boredom that I’ve known. Work is enchanting and soul-feeding. I’ve spent the vast majority of my life wanting adventure and travel. So being at home is a new, slow cooked pace.
I just watched a little clip of moonlight on the Brazilian ocean in a movie and started to cry. Then I looked over at the full, sweet faces and smiles on my boys and smiled. There. Here. My full moon reflections. Them. The reflection and refraction of the light we’ve created. Okay, then. Okay.