I cannot even fathom how many hours I have written under the power of the Moon. It is, as it was right then, my one consistent muse. I won’t even reckon the number of poems scratched out about this Moon of mine. There see, I’ve even become possessive of something as common as spit and routinely on display for everybody else to enjoy (we all share the same sky).

By JG Lewis

 

Old habits die hard, or, rather, they do not die at all.

I glanced up at March’s Full Moon well after midnight. Actually, it was far more than a glance. I stopped, I stood, and I stared at the ever-changing, familiar sphere as it ushered in a new season. It was not what I intended to do. I had hoped, or planned (even plotted) to ignore this Moon.

A full month ago, truly (in consideration of the precise lunar cycle), I decided I spent too much time watching over, wishing on (even worshiping) this dominant celestial object. I wanted to believe that the Moon has no effect on me; that I, conceivably, was even frittering away this life allowing my mind follow its path, or my heart be swayed by its rhythm.

Always, evermore, a creature of the night, I cannot even fathom how many hours I have written under the power of the Moon. It is, as it was right then, my one consistent muse. I won’t even reckon the number of poems scratched out about this Moon of mine. There see, I’ve even become possessive of something as common as spit and routinely on display for everybody else to enjoy (we all share the same sky).

I decided I’d been paying attention to the Moon when I should have been in bed or devoting my time to more worthy topics like income tax, the impending global economic impact of Brexit, reducing my carbon footprint, the dramatic healing traits of a Himalayan salt lamp…or what have you. I tried to face facts. The Moon, I convinced myself, was as calculated as it was consistent, as bothersome as boring.

I’ve gone about the past month keeping a more regular bedtime. I’ve been eating better, listening to my body more than my imagination and trying to counter past behaviours that have not served me well.

Yet there I was, on the last night of a weary wicked winter, with clouds as certain as politics, staring skyward at something that both reflects back the light of something else and the feelings of anybody else. How original.

How compelling. How can you not read something into it? Few symbols have captivated me as much as the Moon, and there I was, on the cusp of Spring, wanting to be hopeful or just trying to get by. Obviously this will be a month of contradictions. It may also be time to rearrange plans, accept familiarity, and not take myself too seriously.

It was a chance to remember that not all habits are bad.

 

J.G. Lewis is a writer and photographer, a dreamer and wanderer, father and brother (an orphan of sorts), living in Toronto. Formerly an award-winning journalist, he now writes mainly fiction and poetry. He practices Bikram Yoga, doesn’t take the camera out enough, and enjoys the snap, crackle and pop of music on vinyl. You can find more of his essays and poetry at:   www.mythosandmarginalia.com. Follow him on Facebook, and Instagram jg_lewis

 

 

Photo: Pixabay

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

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