Moonlight
The first time I remember feeling truly inspired was when I was 7. I was in bed, and I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t want to sleep, because I was watching the moon overwhelm from outside my window.
Everything was dark, but the moonlight painted the bedroom a silvery blue, inviting the shadows that are often lurking to come out and play. Yet there was a stillness I could not shake. A stillness born from awe.
And in that moment, I knew I was never going to forget the details of that night. How the bright glow muted the stars that frequently freckled the sky. How the dark gray silhouette of the trees around our house seemed inconsequential next to the intense illumination from the moon. It was stunning really. And it was everything to me.
Now my view is a little different. I can’t even see the sky from my apartment window. Instead, I see the gray classrooms of the elementary school blocking our view. But sometimes, when a light lingers after-hours and spills into our bedroom, and as I am waiting for sleep, I am reminded of that night, of that seven year old girl who caught the moonlight.
