The moon just does something to me. Always has. With its seas of dry powder, and the gray that turns silver and seems to shiver all the way down to the green and blue of the earth.  3625898812

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?