moon Archives - NorthStarNature

Begin Spring

March 19, 2023 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Tomorrow is the first day of Spring. Ready or not, here it comes! It seems like we are nowhere close to Spring this weekend as we continue to ‘clean up’ after yet another snowstorm. The roads are icy, the temps are unseasonably cold, the wind chill is downright Decemberish, and there is a lot of snow on the ground in the middle of the yard!

But just like so many things in life, Spring is a process that has a beginning, a middle, and an end—just like a story. So tomorrow we begin Spring. The groundhog did the countdown, and we, as excited children, waited in anticipation for the moment Spring would find us. So what does beginning Spring look like in central Minnesota? There is a change in the position of the rising and setting of the moon and sun—the moon on a monthly basis yet always in a celestial dance with the yearly movement of the sun. The sun is rising and setting ‘nearly’ east and west in its trek toward the Summer Solstice when long hours of daylight in the North of the Northern Hemisphere will shorten our nights.

There are days of melting and days of snowing—a ping pong game of subtraction and addition. But with the beginning of Spring, snow subtraction begins to pull ahead for the win.

Even with a new blanket of a windblown five inches of snow, the sun, from its higher position in the sky, is a steady source of warming power. Even with below freezing temperatures, the sunshine is softening the snow, compacting it with more moisture, and melting it along the edges.

The beginning of Spring, despite the snow, has us looking forward to warmer days when gardens can be planted and canoes can be retrieved from the drifts and winter slumber to glide once again on the ice-free lakes and rivers.

It doesn’t look like Spring, but whether we are ready or not, it has found us!

The beginning of Spring is more subtle than our weary minds and bodies would like it to be. But nonetheless, it arrives. It carries with it the promise and hope for the middle of Spring when the snow is gone, the grass is green, flowers are growing and blooming, and birds and animals are nesting and creating. Then the story of the seasons and us comes to the end of the chapter of Spring and to the beginning of Summer, and so on and so on. It is a sweet dance, like a flowing river, with a rhythm and cadence sung by Mother Nature— ♪ “Here I come.” ♪

Talking to the Moon

October 28, 2018 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to. –Carl Sandburg

Last weekend was a lonesome couple of days. The men in my family headed south with a bad case of Mahomes fever. It was perfectly understandable—the Chiefs’ young quarterback is taking the NFL by storm with his quickness, his yards/game, and his touchdown passes. I love it when a star is born. I also love when a star shines on the rest of us—and that would be our star, the Sun! Our star shines on us here on Earth and also on our Moon. Do you know what a selenophile is? A person who loves the Moon and finds joy and peace of mind from the Moon!

I worked outside in the sunshine for most of the day, cutting back hostas, raking leaves, and pulling the wilted, sad-looking vegetable plants out of the garden. Dozens of cherry tomatoes that had not ripened or were not harvested squished under my boots. Only the carrots and a few cold-hardy lettuces still looked green and lively after the freezes. It had been a good year for tomatoes, green beans, and lettuce, and I felt a deep satisfaction for all the meals our small garden had provided. As evening rolled in, the not-quite-yet-full Moon rose through the pine trees.

It was a beautiful evening. No wind, not too chilly, a shining Moon. I decided to make a campfire for myself, so gathered some wood before it was completely dark. The previous week’s rain dampened my chances for a roaring flame, but with small logs, pinecones, and some newspaper, I soon had a respectable fire.

The sun sank below the horizon, now so far south in the western sky. The trees stood bare and black against the soft colors of the sunset.

As I sat beside my campfire, I felt a little silly for doing this by myself. I missed Chris. I missed the kids. I missed my faithful companion Tamba who always loved to lay at our feet when we had a campfire. It was just me and the Moon.

When all those feelings and thoughts of loneliness, missing someone, and being alone impinge upon our mind, body, and soul, our first reaction seems to be to do anything that distracts us from those feelings: social media, tv, music, phone calls, exercise, eating, drinking. Just don’t let me feel those feelings! It causes discomfort, and I felt it as I sat by myself by the fire. I even thought of a bunch of things I should be doing instead of sitting there alone. ‘Working’ is a great distractor. But the night, the fire, and the Moon implored me to stay, welcomed me into the natural world, and calmed my discomfort. “Of course you are missing your family and Tamba—they are such an important part of your life. Chris and Aaron are having a wonderful weekend and will love to tell you all about it. It was a beautiful day, and you got a lot of work done getting ready for Winter. You are stronger now than you’ve ever been,” said my friend. Even in the darkness, the star’s light shined down on me. “Touchdown!! The Moon and De-nise!”

Snapshots of July Stories

July 29, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Here we are in the middle of the year, in the middle of summer—this month of July. I tend to wish away July when the temperatures rise, when the humidity causes so much discomfort, and when bugs are bugging humans animals, and plants. Oh, and also when the deer jump our garden fence and eat the beans, beets, and peppers. The first half of the month was hot and sticky—and I realize that relative to the rest of the country, we have it easy. Just as I was wondering how to navigate the humid days of summer, we got a blast of welcome relief from cooler Canadian air. The last two weeks have been glorious summer days—days I am not wishing away! Looking over my photographs of July, I realized that our month could be told in a series of little stories. There is the two-sided story of the deer—the nemesis of Chris and his ‘fight’ to save our hostas, trees, and other plants from being devoured by our cloven-hoofed friends as opposed to the beauty of spotted fawns with their mamas.

I saw one small fawn by itself one evening, just standing in the driveway, looking back and forth between the barking dog in the house and the sound of people walking down the street. No mama was in sight. Another day, a fawn hid behind the grass by the blueberries—again without its mama. It’s unusual to see such a young one without its mother close by, and I wondered if she had been killed somehow. Poor, cute baby.

July holds the story of blooming things. The garden vegetables—peppers, tomatoes, green beans, and cucumbers—are flowering and beginning to grow their fruit. Hosta flowers are in wild abundance, much to the happiness and satiety of the hummingbirds.

Carpets of thyme are covered with purple blooms, and annual zinnias are bright and inviting to the butterflies.

There is the story of time on the lake with friends—delicious in-the-moment time when the look and feel of the water and wind make every cell in your body feel alive. It is the story of Minnesota where pines and loons represent our state.

The story of the Lake is not complete without Cattails, Yellow Pond Lilies, and spiders who take advantage of a corner of a dock to capture a plethora of insects that hover around the water.

There are the summer stories of friends and relatives around a fire on the patio.

The stories of Sunlight and Moonlight fall on the moss of trees, the burbling creek water, and the tall oaks of the forest.

July stories told in snapshots are added to the album of Summer and then to the bigger albums of our year and life. I like how the photographs open those albums, how they illustrate a part of the story, and how they reveal elements that may not have been noticed before. So often—like the deer story—there is a little story within the bigger one. It also illustrates how there can be different feelings and thoughts about a situation, not only from different people, but even within one person. Our personal stories, seen through the snapshot of a photo or memory, are limited, however; we don’t see what’s happening off camera or have all the pertinent information. But a photo and story are also gifts to every one of us—they remind us of the beauty and goodness of life. They make us remember not to take people or things for granted. They instill in us the preciousness of time. What are your July stories? What delicious moments in time have you had this summer? And are you ready for a new story to unfold in each new day?

Summer Solstice Snapshot

June 24, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

What happens on the first day of Summer? The Summer Solstice was Thursday, the 21st—the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, when the Earth’s axis is most tilted toward the sun. It is when the sun rises before most of us do and sets not long before most of us go to bed. It is a day of long daylight, of energy, of evolution of the seasons. It is a day of new beginnings.

What happens on the first day of Summer in Minnesota? Fruit is forming, growing, and ripening—apples, blueberries, wild plums, and wild strawberries.

Tender new growth on the evergreen trees is starting to harden off, easing into the next stage of growth and development, stepping into its larger self.

Summer sunshine, blue skies, and white clouds outline and energize the trees.

On the first day of Summer, some flowers, like the Gas Plant, are already going to seed, while a whole passel are in full bloom or getting ready to bloom.

The late-planted garden is growing, as are the weeds that will need to be cleared out so the good stuff will grow and produce.

Bird parents are busy searching for insects to bring back to their hungry babies.

Broken remains of storm damage finally fell from a tree, days after the other storm debris had been cleaned up.

And then, just for a reality check, Summer throws in a little taste of what’s to come in a couple of months…

Late in the long day, the sun finally sets, the long twilight glows on, and the moon shines bright in the southern sky.

One notable Summer day, the Solstice, the official beginning of Summer, is like a birthday—remarkable in a way, but as common as every other day. It is a marker of seasons and new beginnings, a snapshot of the continuing development of all that is Nature and all that is Us. If we take the time to clear out the weeds and clean up the debris from the storms of our lives, we are energized. We can learn and grow and step into our larger selves. We are ready to bloom and ready to bear fruit. Shine on!

No Holding Back

May 6, 2018 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

“No matter how long the Winter, Spring is sure to follow.”

Three weeks ago we had a foot of snow. But Spring will no longer be held back! On Monday, two turkeys foraged along the road pecking at emerging leaves of green grass and tender new buds.

It was so wonderful to see the grass finally turning green and the chives pushing their way up!

Two visitors passed through on their way North—a White-crowned Sparrow and a Yellow-rumped Warbler.

April’s end-of-month full moon illuminated buds on a tree, and a colorful sunset shone through the silhouette of trees where soon leaves will occlude the splendor.

The Bluebirds returned this week! Their swift, swooping dives and chattering songs fill the front yard as they check out the nesting boxes.

On Thursday, I finally got to my annual Earth Day ditch clean-up. Once again, with most of the trash being plastic, I urge everyone to ‘ditch’ plastic shopping bags and use paper or reusable bags. It will make a difference! I also found this unfortunate creature who didn’t make it through the winter—one of our resident opossums who waddle back and forth from the quarry to the woods.

By Friday, the Forsythia and Bergenia were blooming! The lemony yellow Forsythia flowers shone in the morning sun along with one orange fall leaf that had held on through the winter.

The Bergenias send up a study flower stalk between green leaves that have weathered the winter and those that dried and died. No holding back.

Ferns with their rolled fiddleheads emerged by warm rocks, casting shadows just as intriguing as the fiddleheads themselves.

The most amazing bud to me is the terminal bud of a Buckeye tree. I’m always incredulous that such a huge amount of leaves can be coiled into one bud—and they are beautiful as they unfurl!

One sign of Spring that I always look for is the ‘green blush’ of new leaves on the Aspen trees down by the river. Thursday, no green blush, but Friday morning, it was there!

The floppy, fragrant petals of the Star Magnolia opened on Saturday. So beautiful!

For the first time, I saw a Baltimore Oriole come to our feeder! No holding back the Goodness of Spring!

I think most of us up North would agree it’s been a long winter, but Spring sure has been sweet this week. It’s as if all the power and potential can no longer be held back, even as the last piles of blackened snow melt and the frost recedes from the ground—Spring has come bursting forth! There are many times in life when we feel the holding back and comfort of what is known along with the pull of a new adventure. A baby is happy to sit or crawl until the urge to walk implants itself in mind and body—there is no holding back. Children are eager to learn and ‘do it themselves’ after years of parents doing it for them and teaching them motor and mind skills. Adolescents oscillate between being a dependent child and pushing their way to adult independence. At some point, there is no holding back the desire to live one’s own life. A similar thing happens in mid-life after decades of striving, achieving, raising children, putting plans on hold, paying bills and doing the necessary matters. We wonder if we have lost ourselves, if there is something more to life, if we have fulfilled our potential—we forage for new ways or remember something from the past that we have carried with us like a lone, orange leaf. Some parts of our lives die—by our own hand or by the hand of a higher power. We explore intriguing shadows that lead us back to our own intriguing selves. No matter our age or circumstance, we are beautiful as we unfurl.

Holy Week is the Story of Our Lives

April 1, 2018 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

This has been a wild week—a wild and holy week. Wild because of the weather, with up and down temperatures, sunshine and snow, mud and ice. Holy because it’s Holy week in the Christian religion. Palm Sunday dawned with a peaceful, pastel sky—a sight to behold, one fit for a King.

Early Spring eases its way out of Winter with fits and starts—the promise is here, small signs are here, but in good standing, we cannot proclaim that Spring is here. One morning, this small sign of Spring chirped and sang with exuberance from on high in the Linden tree. A Starling is not known to be a pretty or interesting bird, but he was singing hosanna with joy!

The colorful Sunday morning sky heralded in a Monday morning snow. Confusion swirled around the Spruce branches as the vine tried to reassure them. Spring is here! They did not believe.

Tuesday warmed to 40 degrees with brilliant sunshine, and the sap was lifted up from the earth and flowed from a wound in the Maple tree. Now this feels like Spring!

Wednesday was muddy and messy. The warmth melted the new snow and chiseled away at the old piles. Plans for the future garden were held in disbelief.

It’s too hard to imagine Spring and new life when the snow still clings to the north-facing hills.

Thursday’s rising sun shone through another colorful morning sky, foreshadowing another stormy day. The pink light from the east reflected off the western hills. Geese flew to the open part of the Sauk River for nourishment and companionship, washing their feet in the clear, cold water.

Friday morning’s sky was heavy and dark to the west, and I thought to myself, ‘It looks like snow.’ Soon the flakes started to fall, laying down an inch or so on the pavement as the warmed earth melted it away. A Pileated Woodpecker crowed his distinctive call, flew to the base of one of the old Spruce trees, and proceeded to excavate a cavernous hole with his powerful beak. He shouldn’t be destroying a live, formidable tree.

The afternoon looked normal, looked warm, but the wind picked up and felt damp and cold, betraying any thoughts of Spring. When the sun sank and the day was done, the night sky was a strange purple-gray.

I heard the wind straining the house and trees overnight and heard ice hitting the windows. A Winter chill settled over the house, over the land, over the Spring. Saturday morning was cold with a wind chill of 1° F and three inches of snow. The evergreen tree branches drooped with the burden of heavy, icy snow. The blue sky taunted us to come outside to play, but everything else about the day held grief, disbelief, and suffering. Spring, why have you forsaken us?

Easter morning dawned clear and cold. The wind had calmed down. The second blue moon of the year was setting in the west.

The sun rose blindingly bright; we were unable to look directly at its glory—even through the trees its power was undeniable. The Cardinals were singing their Spring songs, and the sun created infinite sparkling diamonds in the snow.

It seems like all of Life is encompassed in Holy week. Our exuberant joys and our deepest sorrows. The days our hearts are troubled. Our denial and disbelief in what is real, in what is happening before our eyes, in what we thought we strongly held in our hearts. Holy week and our lives are wild with confusion, doubt, and suffering, along with devotion, love, and friendship. It highlights the tender, vulnerable moments of our lives when we dare to kneel in servanthood, when we break the rules for justice and kindness, when we offer our dearest ones to another for safe-keeping, and when we call out to God in prayer. It reveals the inconsistency and idiocy of power in the wrong hands and of deluded group-think that spreads like wildfire and destroys the Spirit of truth. It gives us hope for the future, peace for the present, and reclamation for the past. It gives us a way forward, a blueprint for transformation, and a belief in a bigger, more benevolent Way. Holy Week is the story of our lives. Peace and Love be with you.

What is Your Default Setting?

January 7, 2018 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Twenty-one days. How have you spent the last twenty-one days? What has been your default setting for those days? In the calendar year, the three weeks around Christmas and New Year’s are usually not the normal way we spend the rest of the year. Busyness, traveling, shopping, concerts, parties, baking, cooking, wrapping, decorating. What is your default setting when things are crazy busy? Are you happy, grumpy, a recluse, a shining star? What is the essence of you?

This time of year has always been a joy for Chris and I—the kids were all born within these weeks, so we celebrate three birthdays and Christmas in two weeks’ time; add two more weeks and throw in New Year’s Day and Chris’ birthday! A time for celebration! Not all years have been a joyous celebration—my Dad died two days after Christmas two years ago, my horse of twenty-one years died on New Year’s Eve many years ago, and last Christmas, Chris and I dined alone and didn’t see our kids. Sadness intertwines with joy. This year, we are fortunate to have Emily with us for twenty-one days—definite Joy! Aaron joined us for Christmas and New Year’s—Happiness! Anna wasn’t able to be with us—Longing and Sadness. All mixed together in this holiday season. With Emily here, this darling child of mine, I realized that my default setting was to “be” with her—no distractions of phones or computers. Social media is a great tool when you are far from your loved ones and friends, but I had no desire to spend time on Facebook when Emily was sitting across the table from me. Of course I’m grateful for the web and Facebook to circulate my posts and keep in touch with friends, and I purposefully checked in with my weekly posts, but I am evermore so grateful to have our grown children spend time with us.

What is Nature’s default setting at this time of year? Our northern winter sun rises, peaks, and sets in a low arch in the southern sky. This photo was taken a little after 1:00 pm on January 5th with the sun low on the horizon. The sunrise that day was 7:58 am CST, and sunset was at 4:50 pm—a short day of light.

Nature’s automatic course of action of sunrises and sunsets determined by the tilt and rotation of the Earth in relation to the Sun happens no matter what else is going on—we can rely on it and enjoy its beauty.

Another of Nature’s default settings is the constancy and reliability of the Moon and its phases. The New Year began with the rising of the full moon, traditionally called the Full Wolf Moon in the Northern Hemisphere according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac.

The close-to-Earth supermoon looked huge and orange as it rose in the below zero temperatures of New Year’s Day.

The second full moon of the month—a Blue Moon and another supermoon—will rise on the 31st of January and brings the only eclipse of the year for North America.

The constancy and reliability of the sunrises, sunsets, and moon phases are default settings in Nature that we often just take for granted. This automatic course of action affects the very intricacies of our lives—our sleep/wake cycle, the tides of the oceans, the production of blooms and fruit in plants, and reproduction in animals. When we look at our own default settings, we can see that they too affect so many aspects of our lives—relationships, health, outlook, education, and our environment. The things that happen around us are all mixed together in a milieu of self and other, of desire and fate, of purpose and happenstance. We can examine our default settings—those ways in which we automatically act and react—and we can ask ourselves if they truly represent the essence of ourselves. If not, we can override that automatic course of action and change the default setting. Overriding the default settings of our lives is not an easy task—it takes courage, love, time, education, and often many attempts—but it is worth it when you find something in yourself that you can rely on and at the same time, enjoy its beauty.

Gleanings from February—Sky Gazing

March 5, 2017 by Denise Brake 3 Comments

Look up at the sky and contemplate how amazing life is.*

When I was a kid, I remember lying down in the wide expanse of an alfalfa field looking up at an even wider, wilder expanse of blue sky. There were so many things to contemplate at that time in my life—many of them amazing and life-affirming. But I also remember having lots of questions about life that didn’t come with tidy answers and good feelings.

February’s cache of photos included a vast array of sky pictures—moons, sunrises, clouds, and spectacular sunsets. I’m always amazed at the colors that can appear in the evening sky, how the orange sunlight can produce purple clouds…

and how orange clouds with tinges of pink look against the blue sky.

February’s full moon rose in a mottling of clouds, casting an almost-rainbow halo around itself.

Later in the evening, the clouds cleared, and I was finally able to see The Lady in the Moon as described to me by Muriel in the comments of my post Gleanings from September–One Way then Another.

Another amazing thing about sunsets is how they can change in just a matter of minutes. The clouds move, the colors morph as the sun sets and the sky darkens. This is how the sky changed in just eight minutes, all the while maintaining that white streak….

We didn’t have much snow in February, but on the last day, gray skies and tumbling snowflakes shrouded the bare trees.

This is one of my favorite sunset pictures. The white zigzag seems like a portal to another world, an enticing glimpse of something beyond ourselves, even while the present, visible world is magnificent!

A blue sunset sky and quarter moon soothes the senses like a bedtime story.

One likes to think that after decades of living that answers come easy and it is no longer necessary to gaze up at the sky and contemplate life, but I know that is not true. My childhood contemplation, my sky gazing, were rudimentary endeavors at living a conscientious life, of being in prayer with the great Creator. I know that continues throughout our lives. As we live, we experience heightened life-affirming events but also crushing despair, beyond which we could ever imagine as a child. There are still questions, albeit different ones, without tidy answers and good feelings. But as our lives are changing, all the while, a white streak of Goodness maintains us, soothes our senses, shrouds us with Love, and lets us catch a glimpse through a portal to What Is.

*Some had this quote from Rhonda Byrne, others had Unknown.

Prayer Without Words *

January 12, 2016 by Denise Brake Leave a Comment

Saturday morning was crisp–in a single-digit-degree-Fahrenheit kind of way. The winter birds were flitting and diving to the feeders, then to the snowy ground that was polka-dotted with the fallen black oil sunflower seeds. Chris had an NPR show on the radio, and I drank my exquisite Ely Gold tea. I’m notoriously bad about understanding song lyrics–or knowing who the artists are, for that matter. The music of a particular song caught my attention–it felt emotional and a little haunting to me. Then the words ‘prayer without words’ registered through my morning thoughts, and I felt a connection to the past days and weeks since my Dad’s death. It hadn’t even been two weeks yet–why did it feel like it had been much longer than that?

I used that amazing thing called the internet and instantly found the lyrics to the song considerably titled Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier. In spite of my ears hearing lyrics about bird’s high notes and shooting stars, I realized that she wrote about a much darker place than a father’s death. With a tad bit of gratitude that my darkness was because of a natural death after eighty years of living, I still turned the phrase ‘prayer without words’ over and over in my mind.

Here are a few of my prayers without words from the last couple of weeks.

Nature is praying all the time without a single word. Thank you, Creator, for the warmth on a cold winter day. Thanks for the bronzed sunlight that illuminates us at day’s end. Thank you, O Great One, for Light that penetrates the darkness. Thanks for the home in which we live and raise our offspring. And thank you, Wise Emmanuel, for the endings in our lives that give rise to our new beginnings.

*Prayer Without Words by Mary Gauthier from her Mercy Now album

Three Nights of Seeing the Moon

December 9, 2014 by Denise Brake 1 Comment

Can you see the moon tonight

Sugar-white perfection

Radiant beams of purest light

Our hearts’ connection

–Chris Rice

The lyrics to this song go on to reminisce about a lullaby his mama sang. It’s a lullaby that many mamas have sung to their babies; it’s a nursery rhyme simply illustrated and hung over a crib; and it’s the premise of a number of children’s books that have soothed little sleepyheads at bedtime.

I see the moon and the moon sees me,

And the moon sees the one that I long to see.

God bless the moon and God bless me,

And God bless the one that I long to see.

Three nights of Seeing the Moon last week reminded me of this rhyme. Wednesday was a clear, blue-sky day, and when the moon came up (above photo), it was ‘sugar-white perfection’. It sparkled like a piece of sugar crystal candy.

The next day was sunny and clear with wispy clouds, and when I first saw the moon, it was peeking through the white pine tree.

The light clouds slowly rolled over the face of the moon, darkening parts of it in a shadow dance.

The large, dark areas of the moon are called Lunar Maria which are named for water features (Maria meaning Seas; singular is Mare.) These regions do not contain water and are believed to be formed from molten rock. The lunar nomenclature was introduced in 1651 by Riccioli, following Galileo’s first look at the moon through his newly invented telescope in 1609. The Sea of Crisis is not far from the Sea of Tranquility and the Sea of Serenity. Smaller plains are called Lacus or Lakes. There is a Lake of Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring and Lakes of Fear, Hope, Solitude, Hatred, Goodness, Sorrow and Joy. There are Paludes (Marshes) and Sinus (Bays)–Marsh of Decay and Bays of Love, Harmony, Trust and Honor.

Most of the craters on the moon are circular in shape and are caused by impacts from asteroids, meteorites, or comets.

The moon of our planet Earth reflects the light of the Sun. It is intriguing, mysterious, cyclical, and emotional. The cycles of the moon influence tides and is said to effect fishing, planting and growth, sleeping patterns, and behaviors.

A little later that evening, the moon lit up the clouds in concentric circles of color.

Friday’s moon rose with an amber color in a clear sky. It was the day before the full moon.

Unlike Wednesday’s cool sugar-white moon, this one was warm and rich colored, like a golden gem.

Three nights of seeing the moon, and they were all so different in how the Sun’s light was reflected and seen by us. The moon itself was the same. Each crater and mare and lacus were the same. What was getting in the way of the pure light? Clouds, dust particles, shadows, and even the earth itself at times. I like how Riccioli named the large ‘water features’ on the moon after the emotions and conditions of our human hearts and experiences. Because the moon evokes such powerful emotions, I think we share Riccioli’s connection to the moon. The moon we are looking at sees and is seen by the ones we cannot see. We want that connection–the connection of our hearts. In the end, as in the lullaby, we have to call upon the Eternal One to bless us, to bless the moon, and to bless the ones we cannot see–all of us in our sorrow, goodness, fear, hope, and love.

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