The moon children are walking suburban streets, half-lost amongst our ordinary.
You think you don't see them, but really they are nothing like ordinary, and you simply don't understand what you are noticing. The old odd hat. The eyes like gold.
They try but they don't get it quite right. They are otherwordly, ancient story.
They traipse that story through our lives and leave us glints of wild enchanted poetry.
I went for a quiet little picnic today. With sandwiches and fruit in my bike basket, as well as a book to read and a book to write in, I rode to a nearby reserve. Halfway there I decided to treat myself to a cherry blossom cake, which is a favourite of mine from childhood. I couldn't really afford it, but sometimes a girl needs cake.
The woman in the cake shop put down a broom to serve me, and although I am rather anxious about germs I chose to smile and say nothing, rather than frown worriedly. There was something gently beautiful in her eyes. She admired my bike and said it reminded her of when she lived in the South of France and would cycle everywhere on her velo : "You see so much more, and appreciate it more, when you are cycling." I agreed, and told her how lucky she was to have lived in the South of France. She said it had been a dream of hers, and she'd kept her heart open for twelve years until the dream came true. "When your heart is open, all kinds of doors can open," she told me. I rather wanted to buy her a cup of tea and sit to hear the wonderful stories I'm sure she could have told me.
At the reserve, I walked my bike over the grass until I found a lovely place shaded by trees. Here I was alone for as far as the eye could see, other than mynah birds and a fleet-footed pukeko. My book remained unopened; I simply sat soaking in the peace. Everyone loves summer, but autumn is very much more beautiful to me.
I must admit, I was a little sad, as we all can be at times, and for some reason got to thinking about Christ, about how he was my first love, and how his voice must sound like the wind through the autumn leaves. Did you know a person can be pagan and still believe in the universal christ? Well, there you go. As I was sitting thus dreaming, an elderly couple walked by. Usually I will keep my eyes lowered, since I am shy and this is Aotearoa where we don't really engage with strangers, especially when they stroll through our perfect peace. But today I opened my heart and waved to them. They waved back cheerfully. And then they stopped, and the man lifted an etched wooden pipe from out of nowhere, and began to play to me.
Old music of stone and mist, sunlight and memory, danced around me. Macedonian folk music, he said, and we got to talking delightedly, brokenly, for Macedonia is very special to me. After a while they wandered on, and his pipe music floated over the grass, through the trees, as he went. I imagined a part of myself dancing behind him into dreams.
Keep you hearts open, friends, for Love is always waiting to walk into your quiet with a song of magic and old, wild beauty.