There was a full moon, but the night was also lit by the street lamps. I was twenty six, living in East Massapequa on Long Island and taking a walk to the bay at the end of my block with Lestat, my black doberman mix. On the way back home the moon was on my right, it seemed to be shining on my face, it was if I could feel it’s heat on my cheek. As I got closer to my house I realized I had been repeating the words The Moon is my Mother over and over to myself. I had no idea where the words came from. Later I made a found object sculpture using a blue and white speckled enamel pot cover attached to an old piece of wood. Around it, in rickrack, I wrote the words The Moon is my Mother. The pot cover became a symbol for the moon, a breast, the feminine.
Yesterday I read the Sylvia Plath poem The Moon and The Yew Tree. One of the lines in the poem is “The moon is my mother“. I’m not aware of ever having read this poem before. Maybe I did, sometime before I took that walk down to the bay in the moonlight and the forgotten words came back to me. Or maybe the words are an archetypal truth. Something each of us just innately know.