The Eve of the Moonflower’s Return
Written By Diane Hicks
These are the things that remind me of her. She had crafted a beautiful mosaic that hung on the wall. It was a woman, alone in the night, but connected to everything, earth, sky and ocean. She was alone on a beach, but her heart was open to the heavens, the universe, the world beyond her skin and everything that lived within. She was an artist, a healer, a wise woman. A sheer animal at points. She knew how to slip inside her seal skin and return to a world without words.
She knew the moon intimately. It was her light, her guide, but also her power. And she was the moon’s flower. In this world they were wed. That’s the only way I can describe it here, now, in this human world made up of words that paint everything, contain and color our very thoughts. Oh Moonflower, what are you? She simply is, no need to explain. There is no agenda here, just the moment to moment. From this side of the looking glass that seems esoteric, merely a dream perhaps. But over there, underneath the ocean, moonlight is like water and everything is understood by all, inherently and without question. There is no need for persuasion, no understanding to come to or arrive at. There is a heartsong and a harmony as others join in. There are no words, only feeling, vibration, untainted sound.
Back here, in her bedroom, my fingers run through the dried flowers of that dream. Lingering scents of orange rind and rose petal mixed with dried kelp charm the air. And I can’t help the melancholy. I yearn for the life of the Moonflower, but can’t walk through that plate glass vortex. I am a veritable reject. And that’s not to say that this life isn’t worth it. Except maybe for some part of me that’s true.
Once years ago I stayed in a hipster hotel back in Austin. It was our anniversary and we were getting away for the night. In addition to the upscale toiletries, the hotel left a poem on a scrap of paper for each of its guests. Ours was about dung beetles stealing scraps of light and hiding them away. What a strange gift that poem was. The imagery delighted us and made us laugh. It all felt a bit decadent. On the other hand, there was something resonant, some other world eluded to perhaps. And doesn’t everyone want an escape?
Except that I don’t, or I haven’t in a long time. I am coming to the end of an era, two decades spent raising children. I’m beyond grateful that I have been able to complete that journey. A favorite thing about me as a mother has been my sense of the magical, the mystical and my love of adventures. I loved creating special moments with my kids. I loved making up stories that would make my oldest laugh until he’d beg me to stop. “Mom, I can’t breathe! I’m going to pee my pants! Please. Please. I can’t stop laughing! My stomach hurts!” I loved that our senses of humor were so twisted together that we had that effect on one another.
And my youngest, swimming like mermaids every day at the lake. Swimming under the full moon in the kettle pond one night on the Cape. “Mom, this feels so magical,” they confessed. I loved and lingered in those moments. I loved throwing birthday parties and making pancakes the next morning for all the kids. This was me stepping through the looking glass into that other world and living there for a bit. It is a place that lives on in my heart and hopefully theirs, but there’s no returning to those times of a small hand holding yours.
Since cancer, I’ve been a bit more focused on getting through to this point. I really wanted to see my kids into adulthood. And now that my youngest is eighteen, guess what? They are still kids to me. My oldest will graduate college next year and I imagine living a good long time to come. Still, I am untethered at present in myriad ways. I yearn for the magic and at points I stumble upon it, but it has felt short-lived. And life has felt hard. People have disappointed me, harmed me, harmed my children. I have felt less open, more rigid at points.
But that’s Ok. Sometimes we need to bite back or at least stand up for ourselves. In truth I’d like to sprinkle this potpourri across the sandy beaches and let the ocean take it away like ashes. There is nothing to hold onto, no need for stale reminders, scents that don’t quite reveal the truth. I’d rather touch into cold waters and let my inner mermaid surface. I’d rather sit on a stone in the sun or warm myself around a campfire at night sharing stories, the more ludicrous the better and dissolving into laughter once more. That is the resurfacing of the MoonFlower, whose nimble fingers will work misshapen shards of colored glass into a picture for my living room. A picture that brings this next chapter of life alive!
