There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
Whom the first Adam saw. The long centuries
Of human vigil have filled her
With ancient lament. Look at her. She is your mirror.
Jorge luis Borges
But I’m as a moon; pale and weak and full of shadows.
You could say I’ve been “mooning about”.
I haven’t been blazing like the sun, I haven’t been a flame.
I’ve only been a moonbeam, surrounded by dark feelings that don’t have names and don’t deserve names. My only shine is caused by another light source, reflected by me.
Knowing my dependency makes me desperate for light, for flames.
Sometimes during my day, the clouds move in and it seems like all darkness and thunderstorms. Sometimes I feel invisible, or exhausted.
When I think about God, and Jesus, and the Light I Am Supposed to Be Shining, I think maybe I should be brighter.
I think I should be able to keep my patience when small boys run through swept up piles of dirt, faster than my dustpan.
In the past, when these thoughts would come, I would try to set myself on fire, I would wrap myself in tin foil, I would do anything to be shiny-er and brighter and more radiant.
But it’s not about me doing.
It’s about me finding.
So I run for light and I find it in rambling rosebushes and Spring evenings. I find it in words and The Word and friends and jelly beans.
The grace part of this? The power and plenitude of the light. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not overcome it.