moon-ringI should be doing something, such as write a poem or iron a shirt, make a list or sweep the floor; instead, I’m standing in the sharp air of November wondering at the state of the moon. I am filled with old ideas and resolutions that warp my legs. In my effort to stand straight, I bend into a ragged shape.

The moon wears a necklace or perhaps a halo that looks like a rainbow or an oil stain, which may be an omen or a portent. Maybe Leonard has written a poem in coloured cloths and wrapped it around the moon to try to show us one last time something we haven’t yet been able to see; some bigger truer picture.

Use the key sweating in your palm to unlock the door and come outside.

There was a time before now when I was compelled to tip the balance in a relationship into what I believed was harmony. How wretchedly that turned out: the brighter I shone my lovelight the darker grew his discontent until I walked on a slant so extreme my hem dragged and bracelets slipped from my wrists. I believed that it was my duty to be happy for both of us.

I thought it was my joy he resented, but what he detested was my inauthenticity.

I should be doing something, such as write a poem or make amends, try something new or practice what I preach, bake something chocolate or listen, listen, listen. To Leonard Cohen’s smoky voice that reassures even when he is reciting the final verses of the world.

How women loved him. Love him. What he is for them.  Not very good at love, however, even according to him.

I know what it is to see a fraud in the mirror. An unholy fraud without the moon’s halo to pretend otherwise.

I should be doing something, such as light the fire myself, stop waiting for the lover to exalt or the emptiness to fill, bend to the form, pack my words, or open my mouth to simply tell the truth.

I would if I knew what it was.

Elizabeth Gilbert says, “Your fear is boring.” So put your pen to the page, the brush to parchment, the glue to the image. You can talk about art until the cows come home but talk won’t produce the milk. You have to reach out and grab those udders. (Finally a breath of levity. Whew.)

The power isn’t in your head; it’s in your hands.

You recognize signs requiring a reroute, a heavier raincoat, or a sidestep into a blind alley. You’ve touched the stones of those barrier walls, even dug your blunt fingertips into the crevices to chip out the subtle shards, so why do you crouch now in the doorway, shoes swelling with wet cement, turning the pieces over in your hands as if they will buy your freedom?

They will not.

You must stand up and walk.

You must hand them over.

They aren’t precious gems. They are rubble, not skipping stones. And now you’ve worn such grooves into their bellies there’s nothing much left anyhow.

Maybe I don’t understand the undertow of addiction.

I should be doing something, such as write a poem for the moon tonight.

Let this be my offering.