This past full moon was exhilarating! Anusha and I have this special language. An unspoken balance. An evolving admiration. For this gathering, I felt I was supposed to watch her, listen to her, do as she does. Among many things, Anusha is firstly a writer, a poet. Its apparent that her words are channelled from great source. This time, Anusha shape-shifted into a shewolf and the moons theme was about "being in-between."
We spent the early day in my dinning room with my nieces and my sister in law. Anusha finished up what she had to do, making phone calls and some work on her laptop. I painted my niece's face and her cousins too. Anusha painted a beautiful, powerful butterfly/lady on my cheek. I made a line down the bridge of her nose. As the sun fell behind the western mountain, Anusha and I stood at the backdoor, mesmerized by the layering of the colors. How the sun goes down, inch by inch. We were so comfortable, standing there, at the backdoor, between the warm house and the winter air. We leaned in opposite crevasses of the doorway, telling what we've made of our words and our thoughts. Anusha said we should go for a walk.
We went across the street and entered the woods. Anusha said she had to make one last phone call, so she did, as we walked, separately but together, toward the stream. We arrived to a steep hill.
All throughout the woods, there are areas enclosed with rock walls made by farmers, many, many years ago. We stood on top of one rock wall. I noticed that Anusha looked up. I was looking down. Basically digging my grave, ready to lay in it. I followed her lead, and joined her in looking up. It was beautiful up there. The canopy spread into a a perfectly interesting shape to frame the sky. With a little bit of sunlight left. We heard an owl, hoot, hooting. Dogs barked in the distance. As much as I wanted them to shut up, their barks made me feel safe and protected.
Anusha closed her eyes and inhaled. I closed my eyes and inhaled. She exhaled. So I did.
We stayed here for a long time. Time we didn't keep track of. The stream was rushing, as it does this time of the year. The underground aquifers are filled to the brim from the abundance of rain and melted snow. The Winter stream widens twice its Summers width.
I wished I would have brought a musical instrument to play. Anusha suggested I sing without one. I made a beat on a tree trunk with my hands and sang one of the first songs I ever wrote.
"You're a chimer, just leaning on your friends
Such a chimer, when will the bells stop ringing
It's so beautiful, looking out the window
It's so wonderful, hearing the wind blow on you
Chimer, just leaning on your friends
Such a chimer, when will the bells stop ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing..."
We looked to the moon, rising over an eastern mountaintop, peaking through the clouds. There were distant lights in every direction. Behind us from the houses, up to our right were airplanes in the sky, a tower, and what appeared to be the headlights of cars turning a corner far away.
The entire night, Anusha held a book at her heart, a manuscript by her grandfather. He left it to her to complete. Her hands were freezing and so were my toes. Anusha howled farewell to the moon. I howled. The dogs heard us and howled along. It made us laugh. So we howled and howled and howled some more.