I. Our Daily Dance
 
The waning moon has this hour turned above the crowns of trees, and spilled its liquid light into the yard. So this evening is accompanied by a shadow of sun's heat. The same moon that years and years ago was torn from earth's belly, born from her and borne away on some celestial tide: once blazing with the fire that gave us life, now its patient ashes spy upon our daily dance, at times shy and out of sight, at times winking at our plight, or otherwise full-faced and offering its white-washed world for these our fine somnambulisms.
 
With no one's arms to hold you from these sights, the dimensions fall one into another, you join the ranks of every color-blinded creature as it flies or crawls or navigates the night, employing sharper, duller vision. A leaf-rattle makes the paw pause mid-step, a stick snap shakes the courage of the smallest, while above the sudden flush of air or nearly-silent slant of wing makes cowering the act of statues, whose hearts race from one moment alive to the next, still alive, alive yet still, praying to not be prey, hoping for no tooth nor talon's spike to rake the nerves.
 
Some of us are larger: suffer less.
 
But suffer even so, adventure when better ventures aren't reached by opening fingers, opened hearts. A footstep starts the body where the spirit would prefer to stop. Still. A stick snap stops the world around the boots of men: who goes there? What would a man be wanting of the night, if not a hunt of one sort or another?
 
The moon will not stand still; her mother moves below her, always at arms-distance, always departing. The child spins as if to turn away; the weight of their connection means she's always falling toward her elder. A pure, white face: smiling as she rises her hello, sad as she departs. A desert of desire, whose fires went out so long ago, depends on stars' impressions to light her further face.
 
Who wouldn't see a spark up there? Some ember that was better than its gray surround, some flickered flash of life that kindled past to second sunrise, companion star, golden guide to keep us honest and awake and in each other's arms, to banish sleep in favor of a man or woman's favored sleep companion.
 
 
II. Gift of Sight and of Delight
 
One can speak more plainly. An apple, for example: there was nothing woman ever gave a man that would be his unmaking. Genesis requires rethinking, since its metaphor is cactus-garden, is painful to embrace. If (for example) Eve opened Adam's eyes, it was to preciousness of life. I suppose that might be blinding, but hardly expulsion from the Divine; invitation, rather.
 
There is some bland assumption by the readers of those ancient runes: a paradise was lost, to be regained at last when body's been betrayed as temporary residence, reminiscent of a slum-lord's tenement, reminiscent of a child who's given no delight or – more likely – never found its gratitude.
 
I do not sign that lease.
 
Paradise is every moment, but skill in seeing clouded by emotions or events. The paradise of creation is in company of men and of women, building walls or raking them down, raising pillars of life or whirling in the great river of each other's dancing, scratching at the earth or forging teams to push back need, or needing the sweet waters of ourselves to wash upon that labor, to loose the earth of us and make us one.
 
No, an apple, or a pomegranate, maybe have been a gift of fruit, of sustenance, of sight or of delight. The days that followed, simply striving to maintain that paradise. If missed, at times, or if (at times) we fail to be delighted, still there's no mistaking it exists.
 

 
III. Throwing Pebbles Down the Mountain
 
The television told me tonight that 1 in every 8 people in the United States suffers hunger. If that is high percentage, imagine my old friends in Indonesia, or the Sertão, or India, where population is so great, or natural resource so scarce, that the ratio is likely inverted. What will you do about that? Remove the idea of guilt-by-inequity. An action forced by guilt is a blind action, and a slap. Instead, imagine your wealth. The problem is not easily solved, yet small movements to resolve it makes it easier.
 
What if…
 
What if a few dollars each day went to help a nation's hunger? What if we set aside the cynicism which says "our effort makes no difference; too many plunderers between here and there; too much need in my own family". Yes, yes, yes. Still, many of us have the strength of surplus, and every effort makes a difference even in ourselves, even being able to say We have acted changes how we walk and think. There are many programs through our communities and churches which make donation less anonymous, which carry goods and capital hand to hand. And we are throwing pebbles down the mountain: gravity helps us: we are of the wealthy nations, whose small stones hit others and still others, so that once our tiny effort reaches bottom, the side of a mountain may have moved.
 
Something to consider. While the moon is circling overhead, telling tales of generations upon generations of humans; when a woman stands beside her man, or a man puts his arms around his woman; when night rolls into its deepest slumber, and wakeful people wonder what it means to be alive.

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