Over cast, but not yet snowing, I took this picture of last night’s full moon through the branches of the maple over my studio.
It’s called the Cold Moon for obvious reasons, but I never think of the moon as being cold. To me it is a bright spot on my cheek as if warmed by a fire.
That is how I came to know the moon, thirty years ago.
One night I was walking my dog through a suburban neighborhood on Long Island where I lived. I felt the full moon touch my cheek and follow me as I walked. It was only when I got home that I realized I was silently chanting the words…the moon is my mother.
It was as if the moon talked to me. Reassuring me that this “mother” was one I could depend on.
