This morning, Meander and I took a pre-dawn stroll up the mountain. She took off on a scent, nose to ground through the ferns. I walked in a just-awake liminality to the creek and stared at the deer print bending over it.
As I turned to walk back down, I looked up at the sky. It was pink and blue and and all that transparence. Then, in the midst, the moon sat, halved. A vertical half-circle, just like we would have drawn as children if we had ever thought to draw the moon anything other than full.
Even now, when I call her silver back to mind, just a few minutes later, I transpose in what I did not see, that invisible dark half hidden by my home, by me. I still seem to be unable to picture her anything but whole.
Perhaps this is grace. To be able to both see what is revealed – what comes through brokenness and the drafts – and to also see in that deep space where we know how things are intended – to see what can be, what might be. The wholeness of life.
As a writer, I walk in this duality when I am balanced. I am able to look at my work and see holes to be filled and growths of too much that must be cut away. But I am also able to feel in some part of me that is more whole than I really know what can be if the work is shaped and carved with care.
Yet, as with life, I also know I cannot carve it to perfect. Craters will still scar the surface. Yet, I will call them seas and choose to believe them lovely.
What do you see when you look at your writing? Half or whole? Or Both?