Full Harvest Supermoon

Fall follows a moon with a full face.

A moon becoming a little more light than usual makes me think, maybe we missed this boat by so many years that now, it might come back around.

Cycles don’t defeat time (I admit, I fall back to thinking of time as some ominous final boss) so much as return things to themselves, or to some approximation to themselves. So says a promissory note in a melody that seems to move on.

But Chris, how can we stop our luck-of-leisure bike ride, this late in the afternoon, to stand in a land of lengthening shadows and behold the living specter of the moon?

The moon we’ve been to and to which we’re scheduled to return. I say “we” like it’s “us.” It’s us, inclusively — if we can figure out how to be so inclusive — if we can get over the worship of exclusion.

I love the word, “include.” It means: to bring into play. Into play’s enclosure; play’s protection. I think of play in a Nietzschean, Apollonian way. Into the light, there is play. (“Let there be something / I can see and something else / I can say.”)

The boat I worried we missed passed straight across the river. I looked on, at first lethargically, and eventually relieved.

After FOMO comes other OMOs. The joy of missing out is a little too bright for me, but ROMO (relief) is something I feel after longing settles for belonging. Something a little bit electrical and magnetic, like light following one with another modulation, the whole wave and way along. In this is a fact I love more than words: light is twilight always.

Let there be light and lightening — outside the racing fuse of “lightning or die” (“publish or perish,” “now or never,” “ghost or be ghosted,” etc.) — against all enticements to rush to judgment day, I stand with the interplay of coming and going, lasting and listening up.