Full Moon

A few nights ago, the moon was full. I'm not sure what it is, but when the moon is bright enough to drown out all the artificial light I am surrounded with, it fills me with a shivery, silvery, quivery sort of power. Perhaps it is the string of women in my ancestry, gazing at the moon with that peculiar feminine connection. To me, the sun is always too harsh, burning my eyes and skin. The moon is soothing and gentle. I can see by its light without squinting. It doesn't suck moisture from me, leaving me headachy. I know it sounds a little new-agey Wiccan-esque, but I believe that it is merely enjoying a snapshot of God's creations with no sense of worship towards the moon. It delights me when the moonlight throws objects, worn by daylight's harsh mundanity, into mysterious yet crisp relief.

Sometimes I feel such a connection with the world around me, it seems I can almost tap into the power of God running through all things. Suddenly, I feel as though I am part of a vast living computer, not nearly as disconnected as I usually feel. When I feel that, for the briefest moment, I realize I am home.