Not a Blue Moon

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

She smiles down on all of us.

Some days are Mondays in the stereotypical sense. Forget blue; I should be so lucky. Blue's my favorite color, and if we were to get a genuinely cloudy day? I'd feel exactly at home.

But the anticipatory fatigue that used to accompany Monday mornings, the sense of last week's tasks yet undone having multiplied in intensity and urgency in the two days away . . . that was here in full force this morning. It matters not in the slightest that for us, Monday is a day like any other, weekends included; all are days of hard work. There remains that psychic something that attaches itself to the coattails of a Monday morning that I can't shake.

Cold and irritable, joints screaming at me, I had to forgo coffee long enough to get my balance. But no . . . the dogs wanted to go out, so that they could chase the coyotes tarrying under a sky fast approaching with dawn firmly in hand.

And then I remembered: full moon. 

Jacket. Camera. Fumble with useless arthritic fingers to get the lens cap off and the power button on. Dodge the dogs while keeping staying upright, on my feet instead of less comfortable regions.

In the mornings, my illness is at its very worst. My hands shake; I'll tip over as though drunk if I turn too fast or too far, or for no reason at all. Predictably, the first few shots were useless. I missed, entirely, the pink glow of the dawn clouds enveloping her face; she dances far too fast in her final dance beneath the breaking dawn, descending to sleep while her husband ascends across the sky to begin his own workday.

But I caught a few shots. This was the final one. 

A short time later, I returned outside for morning prayers in the icy air. I did as I usually do, giving thanks, asking for help for those who need it, asking for ourselves nothing save that on this day, we be given a good day. A good day takes care of everything immediate; tomorrow is another like opportunity, and one to address then, not now.

While I was outside, something had occurred that we very much needed. The day was already good. 

And still Grandmother smiled down on us, until she slipped from view below the horizon to take her rest for the day.

She's gold, not blue; the blue is her robe, her sky blanket. As I write this now, she is rising from her bed between El Salto and Pueblo Peaks, clad in shades of so dark they're near-midnight. As she makes her way across the sky, she'll changer her regalia a few times, ending again tomorrow in a warm cornflower shade, perhaps, like today, shot through with threads of rose and gold. 

But whatever her dress, she'll smile on us again.