The sky is relentless with light, cracked with light; the sky is perfect. I hear people call it beautiful weather and I close my door, draw subtle quiet around me, and dream alone of life's poetry. I do love a bright day, so long as there are also storms and interior shadows; so long as there is relief.
I feel the same wy about the moon. I was born under a full moon, and find myself often awaiting it - but infact what I love best is the time after it, the easing away. It feels like the breath after a culmination. It is affirming, gentling, romantic. I live in a world where people want summer skies and full moons. I see how the shadowy, yearning and ebb-dreaming people tend to fall apart in such a world, become anxious, suffer depression. I want to give them flowers and ghosts, bonfires and dusty old peace, and let them know their way is the right one.
I wish it was understood that melancholy poets also laugh and dance, and that dancers need to sigh in shadowed dreaming. To be whole is to contain ambiguities, light and shadows. It is to turn towards and away from the full moon. For so long as this world calls us to be one thing - introvert or extrovert, gentle or brave, red or blue, masculine or feminine, empty or full - we will break always against edges that really don't exist at all.