I went moon bathing last night.
I wanted to coat my skin in the rosy glow of June's strawberry moon on this of all days: the summer solstice. You can love the light of the year's longest day. You can enjoy the way the sun's rays stretch from dawn until the last whispers of dusk, straining to reach the farthest corners of waking experience. You can admire the way the unabashed luster of the fading daylight makes the mountains blush deeply as if anticipating things best tasted at night. But you must not forget the moon. Or the stars.
And that is why I moon bathed last night. I wanted to honor how the full moon brought more light to this day of light, illuminating the thoughts and forgotten corners that would otherwise remain in shadow. Better to know what lingers under the stardust and hides under the moon-kissed rocks. It is bliss to find that half-forgotten memory buried amongst my herbs; catharsis to finally rid myself of the pests that take advantage of the cover darkness offers. This is my chance to ask the moon for answers (it will not be this receptive again for another 70 years and then-- where will I be?).
So I asked my questions--and she gave me answers. She filled my mouth with the full sweet taste of ripe strawberries until their seeds burst on my tongue. She washed my hair in a waterfall of her silvery light and rubbed my skin in the promising perfume of rose petals. She confided that now, midway through the year, is the ideal time to find my story within a map gifted to me by the constellations. She asked the cicadas to sing so that I may dance. And she told me--as the moon always does--to remember to dream. Deeply. Tenderly. With wild abandon. She bid me stain my fingers and thoughts and beating heart with her lunar liquid, tonight the color of berries pressed between lovers' lips.
Dream. Always. For the best things begin in moonlight.
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