Ordinary Beauty

It is 2:12 a.m. and I have been awake for awhile now. Long enough that I got hungry, and so, sleep slipped even farther from my possibilities.

So I arise and aim for the kitchen. In the dark outside I see that I left the extra porch light on, and then I realize that the bright light is moon-light so I go outside to play in the dark, using the moon’s glow to cast shadows–magic night-shadows with spooky velvet qualities.

I was somehow into my forties before I learned that there are (naturally lit) shadows at night. I was in Humboldt county in the hills of an old horse ranch above the ocean. All the homes there were “off the grid” and electric light was precious, so nighttime outside was mostly dark, except when the moon lit the hills.

We went walking in the full-moon light–like some folks go window shopping after-hours downtown–a stroll in the hills knowing that somewhere out there there were coyote and skunk and fox and bear. And we played games with contorting our shadows and waving our arms about. The stars were thick, creamy, magic. And life was silently affirmed.