When I awoke early in the morning to briefly relieve myself, I began staring out the window at one of the brightest full moons I’ve ever seen. This activity wasn’t particularly good for my eyes. So, I had to rest them for a few minutes as I recovered from the surprising level of glare on my sleepy vision.

For that brief moment of staring up at Luna, I couldn’t help but feel she was trying to tell me something. Scientifically speaking, this would sound absolutely ridiculous; it’s all just a matter of the angle at which our wonderful satellite reflects Sol’s rays. The Master of our Sky is most certainly still there, just out of view for a few hours at a time.

But Luna was telling me something this morning, as if to say, even when you can’t see me, I’m still here, shining for you. There’s, of course, an odd duality to that statement; Sol and Luna take turns reminding us of their ancient presence. But the great paradox for us little somewhat more evolved mammals is that sometimes Luna shines brighter in the night than Sol in the daytime.

Perhaps I felt a bit more reflective than usual, after gaining closure from a very recent trip to Maine. I witnessed the birthplace of most of my best childhood memories lying in ruin, as the gloom of an unexpected April shower set the scene all too perfectly. It shouldn’t have been so unexpected; the nature of clouds in our uncertain times has grown ever more capricious. But I needed a sign that there is still something bright out there to guide my wounded soul. This certainly was not what I needed to see.

While I nurse my sleepy eyes, I struggle to reconcile this moment of inspiration with some of my latest vivid and bizarre dreams. Some are night terrors which I can’t begin to describe once I’ve awakened. Yet others have a sickly-sweet innocence to them. Just before I awoke, I was caring for a baby cow. She was such a perfect little creature, and I was determined to never let her go. This little one was not bound for a dairy barn or a dinner plate, but for a permanent grazing home in my Vermont backyard.

The great irony of a dream in which I care for an innocent infant bovine is that I can no longer consume any of her kind’s byproducts without severe physical distress. This deathly allergy to dairy and beef came upon me like a specter slowly creeping and almost extinguished me in my ignorance of its grip. But I have become content leaving my lovely bovine friends to graze and live happy lives in the fields free of worry that they will one day be at my mercy.

That unusual dream state combined with Luna’s screaming brightness in those gray but promising moments an hour before dawn has got me thinking a bit more than I should be at this early hour. I’m fretting about the progress I’m making with myself as I approach my fourth decade in this mortal shell. I don’t take much pride any more in anything, although more recently I’ve derived far more satisfaction from my own words than ever before.  Many concerns plague both my wife and I that we have very little control over, yet will define our future. These words I compose in the coming days, then, are what I can control, and they may be our saving grace.

My ravaged immune system betrays me a little more each day; ironically, the very part of my physical being that’s supposed to protect me from harm is hampering my quality of life. It’s likely for the best; I wish no harm on the beautiful bovines, and to consume dairy or beef means their suffering or death. For that matter, I wish no harm upon those clever domestic pigs, either. These days, pork products merely leave me queasy, so I choose to pass on them, too. I seem to have no such compunctions about poultry or seafood, though. When properly raised and prepared they don’t make me ill. Their sacrifices are a compromise I must make for my own nourishment.

Whatever I must do to sustain myself presently and for the next few decades will be done for the sake of my wordcraft. I see my gifts as tools bestowed on me by the heavens for a great yet hidden purpose. So, I think it my solemn duty to remind my fellow intelligent minds obscured by the darker sides of human nature that Luna is still watching over us each approaching night.

Sol, however obscured by increasingly angry clouds, is still shining above to brighten our view. It will be billions of years before our bright Master burns no longer, of course. Alas, each of us have but an infinitesimal fraction of His lifespan in which to shine before we extinguish our fragile mortal filaments.

As Luna makes a shy smile, retreating slowly into the dawn, I recognize no science can explain what I just experienced, but something much greater. My metaphysical musings must take on greater meaning than the sum of their disparate parts. They must come together into a whole experience which you as my readers must frame in your own unique ways.

We must each do our part to respect the lives we touch over the course of our continued struggle to survive in a dying world. After all, at the end, the Almighty Judge of Divine Light will have seen all we do, say, and even think. Then, our souls will either be bound to eternal suffering or rise to a greater unknowable glory. Yet, all we need to do is properly listen when Luna screams and the angry clouds release their seemingly endless tears.

~ Artemis Phoenix Desertsong

P.S. A version of this essay appeared in my short essay collection, Cloud Pieces.