I drove once to the highest place I could find to see the super moon. I don't do that kind of thing any more. Living on the floodplain these past three years, down by the horizon, I have seen hundreds of moons, and every one of them was beautiful. Fat corn-goddess moons. Fine-boned maiden moons that seemed to have been woven from the luminosity of wet shells on dark shores. The size did not matter, only her soul. For me, looking out my kitchen window every night, wondering what the sea and sky had born this time, it was always about the moon. Not about me, not about mathematical astronomy. Just the old, serene magic of the moon, the daughter of water, the daughter of earth dreaming.
Listening to Francesca Mountfort, thanks to Antoinette.