Laughing Down the Moon (30 page)

Kneeling before the bookcase, I leaned back on my heels and let my eyes gloss over all the book spines. I wasn’t sure
Drawing Down the Moon
belonged here on this shelf. I’d decide after tonight.

I got up to gather the necessary items: wine and sea salt from the kitchen, the chalice and incense from the little wooden box under the dining room window, a bundle of dried sage and my wand from the windowsill above the wooden box. All I needed was to find an appropriate Goddess image for the night and to take a cleansing shower before I began.

The night was warmer than most early spring nights, but I planned on a shower so hot that the heat would stay with me. I’d go sky-clad under the cloak. Since it had no closures, any warmth that lingered with me after the shower would be more than welcome. The southwest corner of my backyard always offered the perfect place for solitary rituals. There were three mature pines that stood like sentinels and made a delicious little alcove that protected any open flames from the wind and me from the prying eyes of neighbors. Not that they’d be interested in whatever it was I was doing out there, but one never knows for certain.

Flames. I almost forgot candles. I went back into the kitchen after depositing everything on the dining room table beside the cloak. I opened the cupboard. A wonderful, high-pitched squeak resounded throughout the kitchen. I knew that if it weren’t so late, Dwight would have answered the cupboard door with a mimicking squeak of his own. He, for some reason—probably left over in his brain from days when his ancestors had to be wary of predators—never made noise this late at night, unless it was quiet little bedtime talk in response to my wishing him sweet dreams.

I looked at the selection of candles. I needed a color that signified the beginning of a new journey. Red…no, too full of willpower. Willpower might very well be what got me to The Funk in the first place. Wanting to control everything and then panicking when things didn’t go my way. I had even panicked when things
did
go my way. Black would be perfect for banishing negativity, but again that seemed too controlling tonight, too judgmental. I wanted a color that would allow me to enjoy the flow that life was offering.

I didn’t see any white candles…how the hell could I not have white? White would have been perfect for representing a new beginning. It had been a long time since I had gone shopping, I had to admit. Okay. My eyes rested on the perfect, most appropriate color, even better than white. I drew two long indigo tapers from their box. Beautiful. Indigo was for life changes. Nothing would suit me better tonight. I would anoint them with oil right before lighting them outside. First, a shower.

I padded up the stairs, went to my bedroom to grab the lavender oil from my dresser and then into the bathroom. I didn’t turn on the light because the glow of the full moon outside was streaming in, blurred by the patterned glass in my bathroom window. The hot water cascaded over my shoulders, breasts, hips and thighs. I leaned my head back under the spray, appreciating the heat and then abruptly snapped my head forward. Shit! I should have kept my hair dry. It was unseasonably warm outside, but probably not warm enough to be prancing about out there with wet hair. Damn. I could wait for it to dry, but that’d take too long. Well, I’d just have to pull on a ski cap. The one with the big green and blue pom-pom on top would complement the greens of the cloak quite well. Okay, no worries then. I let my head fall back under the hot stream.

Worrying was the last thing anyone was supposed to do in the cleansing bath or shower prior to a ritual. The shower washed away negative thoughts and concerns so that a person came clean and positive to the ritual. I laughed out loud as I pictured the worry of wet hair on a cool night taking physical form and spiraling around the tub’s floor a couple of times before washing down the drain.

Okay, wash-wash, suds-suds, goodbye worries and negative thoughts and hello lavender oil. I was done.

In less than ten minutes, I found myself outside between the cedar fence and the three pine trees, dressed in a green velvet cloak, a blue and green pom-pom’d ski hat and my black cowboy boots. I had walked outside barefoot and then realized that I hadn’t swept up out here yet this spring. All the little branches, pine cones and stones that somehow materialized after the snow melted were just waiting to puncture the winter-soft soles of my feet. I had dashed inside to get my boots—and here I was—fashion police be damned.

I looked up at the moon, directly above me now. Elation coursed through me like a swollen river, jumping its banks and cleansing everything in its path. There is nothing like the first full moon of spring. Chunky, serious-looking clouds roamed the sky, but none threatened the light of this fat, glowing moon. I felt lucky and warm. I sent a silent thank-you to the moon for everything and nothing in particular. I knelt to set up the altar at the middle of the tiny clearing. I had chosen one of Dwight’s big glossy black feathers for the Goddess symbol. He was actually looking pretty good these days, with his feathers grown back in. He had so many new ones that he was even starting to go through a molt, which I learned from my Humane Society connection was a regular happening for most birds. I laid his feather between the two candles. In the light of the moon, Dwight’s feather almost matched their indigo.

I cast a circle and addressed each of the four directions with gratitude and honor. I knelt and lit the candles, thanking the flames and asking that they guide me. I was about ninety-nine percent sure how the ritual was done, and I knew my intentions, so I wasn’t worried. The best part of being a solitary practitioner is that as long as you are respectful and your intentions are defined and kind, you can’t go wrong. According to me, at least. There are others who would argue this point and say that ritual is only real ritual if it is performed in accordance to tradition. I seemed to be completely alone, so I’d do it my way. I looked over my shoulders to make sure of it and laughed as the pom-pom atop my head wobbled to the left when I looked right and to the right when I looked left. I’d do whatever I wanted to do.

I was ready to bring some Goddess energy into myself, let go of The Funk and move on into the unknown—no matter how frightening that was. All around me, people were doing that very same thing—moving into the unknown. My parents, after decades of unchanging creature comforts, had decided to break free of their old lives. It had brought what seemed like insurmountable challenges, but they were healing. They were staying with Aunt Ana for a few months and were getting stronger every day.

Mickey was letting go of one of her creature comforts as well. She had recently told me, albeit hesitantly, of a first date she had had with a woman she met at her Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I had listened to Mickey’s words with one ear and had listened for any reaction in my heart with my other ear. The only reaction my heart had was to be genuinely happy for Mickey. I didn’t expect to have another reaction because I knew I was in the right place with the right person now, but a part of my mind felt fear that I’d experience at least a twinge of jealousy when I heard Mickey was dating again. Nope, not a twinge. I was relieved but not surprised. I hoped for the best for Mickey.

And then there was Heather who was venturing into the mysteries of motherhood. Was she afraid? Maybe, but she wasn’t so afraid that she stopped herself and Julia from pursuing a pregnancy.

Falina was starting something serious with Brian. She was the last person in the world who’d mis-button her shirt, yet here she was, putting herself out there in ways that were out of her comfort zone in order to strengthen the connection with him.

All those kids in Cami’s classes…they were going into the unknown every day, weren’t they? Really, who knew what each day would bring when you were sixteen or seventeen? Of course, you
were
more used to embarrassing demoralization at that age, I reminded myself. That was pretty much the theme of the teen years, unfortunately.

My new students at Davidoff Academy brought me into their unknown every day with their stories and their questions. I had never felt more honored than when I was listening to a student who had never had sight share his or her vision with me. How wonderfully well they could see the world. There was Joy, the older sister of triplet brothers who identified each brother by his scent—according to her one smelled of Doritos, one of laundry soap and one of wood. There was Miranda who refused to learn Braille because she was certain that her vision was going to be restored soon. She couldn’t explain how she knew, but she
knew,
and I believed her. Then there was Walter, the King of Practical Jokes, whom I’d kill with my own bare hands if he weren’t so good at providing me with amusing anecdotes to share at social gatherings. I couldn’t begin to guess at the unknown my students faced every day.

And then there was Veronica. She was moving into the unknown, too. She had purchased an old filling station on the corner of Nokomis and 43
^rd
and had her business plan drawn up for her garden shop.

I thought of my upcoming trip to the Boundary Waters with Shiloh, said “Egads,” aloud and then started laughing. I was moving forward, no more second-guessing. Shiloh was willing to move forward with me. Whatever would happen would happen; I knew we’d be together.

Speaking of moving into the unknown and speaking of Shiloh, was there anyone out there who moved more into the unknown than she did every day? Not that I could think of. Every morning, Shiloh had to get up and face what life had to offer without even being able to see it. The unknown was comprised of everything for her, wasn’t it? It didn’t get more unknown than being unseeing.

And there I had it. I could make this decision to go for it in my love life and on my career, right? So what if I had had a little breakup and shake-up in my life? People around me were setting prime examples of moving on. I would move on, too. Even Dwight with his new, “Oh God, Oh Goddess, Oh God” routine, which horrified me but made Shiloh laugh until she couldn’t breathe, even Dwight was moving into the unknown, trusting me and his new life enough to stop tearing his feathers out and learn some new tricks, or new phrases at least. I smiled as I thought of how ridiculous it was that I hadn’t yet been able to look him in the eye as he imitated my and Shiloh’s throes of passion. And recently, with the windows open for spring, Dwight had begun to meow in response to the polite meows of the stalker cat—whom I’d patted twice on the head in the past week. Who knew Dwight would become such a funny little guy? Who knew a cat would begin to grow on me? Perhaps the persistent feline was Shiloh’s familiar. After all, they’d showed up in my life at about the same time. Fear and love. Were they always this impossibly intertwined?

My laughter began low and easy and continued until I felt tears pushing at the corners of my crinkled-up eyes. I laughed with my whole being, until I tasted the pine and the night and the silvery light within me. I craned my neck to see the moon, right above me and realized that like the moon, I was full. I had gotten my edges back and was no longer just sliding through life. I’d been caught. Life had me in its wonderful snare.

Bella Books, Inc.

Women. Books. Even Better Together.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

Phone: 800-729-4992

www.BellaBooks.com