I’ve been walking the forest paths at night the past three nights.
I leave by the kitchen door and wander across the meadow and take the gentle slope of the ravine, avoiding the steeper angle that is closer to the house.
When I reach the river I have taken to turning back and looking at my little stone cottage, watching the smoke curl from the chimney and the soft glow of the light through the windows.
The house looks happy and comfortable there on the crest of the rise.
A safe space to get warm after a heavy Spring rain.
A haven in the dark of night.
The trees on either side – aspen and birch – stretch towards the darkening sky, their pale bark standing out in the starlight.
The river reflects the stars and moon into the sky and I look up at that full half moon – long past gibbous and waning to crescent.
I’ve learned a lot about the moon these past few weeks.
I understand why it’s linked to so much folklore and fiction.
A caretaker of people – overseeing and shining bright – but, coming and going… insisting that there are times when she should not be observed and we should not be witnessed.
A Goddess that does not need to be omnipotent, but gives us time to stretch and test unobserved.