I take quickened steps in coral colored heels underneath a seafoam green sky. I leave the florescent beacon of Target and push the cart into the darkening parking lot searching for a Texas license plate in the glistening rows of Kentucky marked cars.
The witty banter with the newlyweds invigorates my spirited walk. In line to check out, the couple compliments my “Brunch and Mimosas” tee and the short and sweet exchange returns me to the good-natured, easy-going conversations of my youth and replenishes a deepening to my roots.
The lightheartedness of the connection carries me forward into the oceanic swirl of a musing night that washes a haze over a half-full moon, but she’s there beneath the whirls and wisps of clouds. Her pearlescent presence emanates a peaceful power in each lunar phase, instructing me to trust the winter and summer of the soul.
I am in the winter of the soul, and like the persistent soft glow of the moon murmurs hope through the layers of dark, I sense an aliveness, a creativity that can only emerge when in the depths of an embodied pause.
There in the Target parking lot, in coral heels I choose to bump up my self-esteem, with a shiny, plastic red shopping cart hoisting holistic dog food and a gray organizer bin, heart-broken and freed from salt water sobs over an illuminated core wound, I reawaken to a remembered vision from a dream.
This is a divined dream that visits in July, a sparkling gift from Inspiration that brilliantly remains in vivid details, like crumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.
Remember, remember, remember.
This is a dreamed moon memory that merges my two favorite words and forecasts a future that shapes my present-decision making.
Lunation.
Vignettes.
Lunettes.
Moon stories.
I own an improv theater in a charming small town, and adjacent to the theater is an ice cream store, a throwback to the diners of the 1950s and also a treasure trove of sorts with whimsical art and unique antiques. I am older, mid-thirties, and I enter the ice cream shop to gather my students, my children, who indulge on sundaes and sip milkshakes, and pass by an old school sign written in curvy font: Lunettes.
I never wake from that dream. That dream is sent to wake me. The dream dust descends into the orbit of my cells to outline the details declaring destiny.
Lunettes.
“Sunglasses!” a Parisian friend exclaims. And also in French, lunettes translates to “little moon,” and for my own dream interpretation, to honor the percolating creations of the subconscious mind, I mischief-make lunettes to mean lunar vignettes, moon stories.
The moon stories that come from this phase of inward gathering.
I nestle the dog food and organizer into the back seat and slip into the car. I wait to turn on the car. I press palms against a steering wheel that has accompanied me through so many lunations, many micro and macro moves, and exhilarations and emptying disappointments.
Like the governing phases of the moon, I’m beginning to surrender to the wisdom of the ebb and flow. I’m starting to see my inner child in that change of currents, to listen to her needs and revere the emotionality and sensitivity as critical aspects of my being.
I allow the salty texture of my feelings to rush through me, through an energized and aching heart, and words emerge in the spaciousness of allowing.
And I write them here.