The Crescent Moon

I wake before dawn to be greeted by the slightest light of the moon.

The crescent moon. She draws me towards her. She speaks to me.

That sliver of light. The moon at her dimmest illumination before the darkness. A sliver of hope before the converging of the unknowing.

Sometimes that narrow shaving of light is all I need. It is sufficient. It is plenty.

But often, it is exactly as it is. A modest portion. Just barely enough. Often, not nearly enough. Not enough to outweigh the unease I’m born into each day. And I wilt into the vague landscape of her limited light.

I’m learning to breathe in the shadows, knowing this obscure perspective is temporary and precious. I’ve grown to love myself in the darkness. In this space where I must create my own light.

I’ve been here before. I know this cycle, this rhythm, this flow. All too well. Death, burial, resurrection.

Soon, the moon, she will wax, and extend my vision. Her illumination will expand and my view will increase. Until she rests again. And again, I will breathe and lie down and rest in whatever remaining light she grants me.

I see myself in her. I will succumb to the darkness. I will be overtaken by more impressive, more substantial light. I will displace bits of myself, but I will remain. I will churn through my cycle. I will tuck away and withhold. I will bury myself. And I will be the luminary. I will choose what will be seen and what will be left to shadow.