"You Can't Walk Backwards And Sip, Don't Swill" - Snow Geese And The Super Moon

Instead of the "Super Moon" maybe we should have called it the "Big Tangerine!" The top photo is of the magnificent orb as it crested the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. The color was as you see it here, an intense melon shimmering slightly through haze on the water.

March 19, 2011 Super Moon as it came over the horizon, east over the Atlantic Ocean from Fox Island, Popham Beach State Park, Phippsburg, Maine

This was the Super Moon an hour later as it crested the tree line in the parking lot of the beach.

     I just guzzled a whole can of  carbonated Polar seltzer. I slugged it down so fast that a huge bubble of gas ballooned into my throat and choked me. For just a second the bubble bulged into my larynx so I couldn't talk or even burp. Then, out it blew with a satisfying belch that would make a sailor blush.

     Writing is like that. Emotional experiences, like compressed gas in a can, are awaiting their moment to irrupt. If the can is opened too soon, the gas dissipates into the air as a non event. Too late or too fast and it's likely to choke me. Timing is everything; it can't be rushed, but it's rarely too late. Sometimes, right after a thing has happened, I can't write about it or look at the photographs because it's too much - emotional Vesuvius in the can of my brain. If I open the can and swill I think I might die.

     When my husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer, I felt like that. And, my beloved little dog died a year ago, though I have yet to write about that, either. Through my fingers on the keyboard, I feel the swelling in my throat coming and it feels too big. There are things in life that are so monumental as to defy my art, yet I need to tell them. How do I explain my terror, or awe and joy? How do I explain that when I sent my husband alone down a corridor to an operating room and laid my dog into the ground, when I saw the great rush of thousands of migrating Snow geese and the rising Super Moon that I knew union with the whole universe? That I saw God?

           From our house, we have a clear view of the eastern sky over trees. We see the moon every night when it's not overcast. But, to watch this rare celestial event, my husband and I went to the beach. Sometimes, to broaden your horizon or change your perspective, you've got to travel. For us, that was about three miles to Popham Beach.

     We've been married ten years which isn't long since we are middle aged. But, a decade is long enough that romance falls by the wayside of living if couples don't work at it. We are old enough that minor things are apt to feel like struggles not worth the hassles. And, unlike when we were younger, we flirt with lack of initiative.
    "Honey, let's go to Popham to see the Super Moon," I suggested a few days in advance. He answered, "It'll be cold." Though we were sitting in our living room, he shivered in advance to emphasize his point. I, on the other hand, had visions of a nighttime picnic on the beach. "Come on," I said. "It's once in a life time." "There's another one in sixteen years," he retorted. "Yes, but it might rain," I answered.
     I remembered that ages ago, a friend had given to me a wicker picnic basket, complete with dinner ware, a bottle opener and table spread. I had never used it, but had stuffed it in a closet, somewhere in our great ark of a house. It would be perfect; now, if only I could find it.

     Remembering that I own things is one thing. finding them is another. It can take days of tearing closets apart, going up and down the cellar stairs, and checking the haunting darkness of outbuildings to find things. And, that's if I can stay on task and remember what I was looking for. So, the lovely, perfectly appointed picnic basket was the first hassle factor to drop off the romance staging plan. Too bad, too because I could almost hear the dry creak of the wicker reeds and feel the soft nap of the throw in my hand. The basket will sit wherever it is waiting for its day, if  by then I remember that I own it.

     I had a bottle of Pear sparkling wine with a pearlesent golden label so pretty it had seemed a shame to mar it with spillage. Dribbles would be inevitable if opened in the dark. I had held onto the special bottle of bubbly for so long waiting for the magic moment to open it that it was probably flat anyway. And, if I didn't take a basket, glasses would be hard to transport without breakage. I know I could have used plastic, but I hate drinking from plastic. It's also not romantic. Item number two to drop from the plan: Pear bubbly.

     Earlier in the day, I had packed the meal. Thankfully, the cold, Tai noodle dish was elegant, but not complicated by the need to keep it hot. The soba noodles rich in chili peppers, cilantro and smokey undertones of sesame oil would give heat enough. 

     My husband has a tremendous metabolism. He must  eat every forty-five minutes or he starts getting antsy. In the beginning of our marriage, when still blinded by love's power to make a woman do most anything, I cooked twenty hours of every twenty four to save him from collapse. Then, I wised up.  The blush was off the rose when I announced that I'd only cook one meal a day, no matter what happened. If he keeled over I would make sure that clause was written into the prenup the next time around. I am sensitive to his jittery state when his hungry horrors set in, though. Sometimes, I cave in and feed him. The moon rise wasn't due for hours after the regular time for feeding the bear. I'd have to do something, or I'd never get him to the beach alive in the dark. 

    The third article to drop from the Super Moon Romance Plan was the picnic dinner. Standing in the kitchen, I plopped the Tai noodles onto a plate and handed him a fork. It was a nice idea, but like sex on the beach, sand in the cold noodles wouldn't have worked. 

     Another thing about my husband is he wakes up very early, so he goes to sleep early. He's nodding off and cheek puffing before the evening news is over. He'll deny this until pigs fly or when the cow jumps over the Super Moon, but it's true. In order to keep him awake, I had to get him out of the house into the chilly March air before it was dark or I'd lose him. He was, after all, the last remaining shred of the Super Moon Romance Plan. 

     Like a lot of people with fast metabolism, my husband doesn't tolerate cold well, unless it's the frostiness that I dish out. We bundled up against the beach breeze and brisk night air then headed out. With time to spare, we walked out to Fox Island, which can only be done when the tide is low. Every year, someone gets stranded out there not realizing that they must get off the rock before the sea closes in around them. When the distress calls come across the Coast Guard radio channel locals say "Yup, someone from away must be out there." I knew that once I had my husband on the island, he would have to wait with me while the sun set. He's got a short attention span and otherwise, might have gotten fidgety waiting for the moon. The molten peach of the setting sun was reflected in every still pool of water. Rhythmic surf left a thin lace of foam on the sand and stirred up a thick musty smell of decay that was delicious. Then, the moon rose.    

     On the far eastern horizon, the straight line between to sea and the sky was broken by a bubble of luminous orange. Swelling as it rose, the Super Moon was everything the media had promised. With it, my heart swelled to bursting and I thought I might cry. Not speaking, I reached for my husband's hand in the dark. I can't imagine life without him and I wanted that moment to last forever.
    Then, his voice of reality said, "Crap. The tide's coming in and we've got to get off the island. We'll break our necks in the dark on these rocks. How are we going to see?" I sighed. From my pocket, I handed him the flashlight I had thought to bring. We headed down the rocks then across the flat sand with the moon to our backs. I wasn't ready to leave, but I did, to be with him, even though he was a mood wrecker.
     But, my husband couldn't be a moon wrecker; it was simply to compelling. I kept stopping to look back at the Super Moon. It was pulling me. I thought of every time I didn't say "I love you," every time I was crabby or in too much of a hurry. I thought of every time something seemed like too much trouble or too big to tackle. I said to myself, "From now on, I'll always........" and a thousand things rushed in to the hole. My husband was power marching to the car, his back to the moon. Finally, way ahead of me, he disappeared into the darkness, just the flashlight beam showing that he was still out there.
     I wanted him to be with me, but I couldn't turn away from the moon. To holler seemed like an offense to the sounds of the night. Like a kid, I tried to walk backward. So, I tripped and fell onto my butt with a thud onto the damp sand. Suddenly, he was there. "Everything okay?" he asked, taking my hand. He had come back for me. "Ya, I'm okay. It's just it's once in a lifetime ya know. It's so beautiful I can't look away. I even tried to walk backward. Don't you wish you could walk backward?" My face was tipped up to the candle colored light of the moon when he kissed me. "You're once in a lifetime. And, none of us can really walk backward," he said and took my hand for home.

     Savor all your once in a lifetimes. Share your songs, your dance, your words and images. You are part of the universe, you are a piece of everything -you are a migrating bird, you are the rising moon.

To see this photo full size and get a better impression of the magnitude of it, double click.

This blog post was the Editor's Pick for Open Salon (http://open.salon.com/cover) March 29, 2011