In David Whyte’s poem, The Journey, these last three lines stand out:
You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.
I’m sitting at my desk late at night, wondering why I’m feeling so out of sorts, and then I see the moon, big and full. Bright and perfectly round behind the trees, and while I work, this silly moon moves ever so slowly across the south, and I watch and work until it slides behind the house.
I’m so lucky to have a moon view.
And I’m missing the big old round window in the stairway of the big old house we lived in last month. That early eastern moon surprised its way into our round window like a cat. It shined its spotlight over our stairway and black-and-white tile kitchen. It showed off as we stopped our lives to stare.
Tonight is a different moon.
It has suburban advantages, framed in a practical window, through poplars planted 30 years ago. It’s right there above my desk (can’t you see it?), a steady beam on my path, a reminder of who I am among the poplars.
I change living spaces as frequently as I change lives. Every house has its own story, its own things to love, and its own rootedness.
But it’s always the same moon.