Friday, May 21, 2010

Chapter Nine - Part Three - Moonlight

Moonlight is reflective, of course, and is not the source by which an orchard grows. Even so the ancients worshiped the moon's light on a dark night. I cannot imagine a more lovely vision than sitting in a mature peach orchard in the moonlight. And, as I contemplate this reflection of the sun, I happen upon a clue to my orchard's design. While I may be suffering from a lack of connection to my ultimate purpose, I can be reflective of the concepts I study and care about in the dark, even if I can't find the switch to that inner sun.

The senses play a different hierarchy in the dark. Sight turns inward, and smells and sounds take the lead. Tactile senses, touch and taste, can be challenging because using them at all requires trust in these new leaders. Confidence is shaken in darkness. Everything that once seemed one way no longer holds absolute. The dark night of the soul is something like this because the practices that were once filled with meaning seem to become irrelevant, and confidence in beliefs is shaken. It may be that all one has to rely on is reflective thinking rather than the bold initiatives of the active mind.

As I'm investigating the experiences of orchard growers near and far, and wondering how this metaphor can apply to the cerebral practices of a writer, I am struck that I am wandering around in the dark. Panic sets in when I realize after 27 entries of this blog series, I still am not certain about anything much. Could it be that my writing life died and I'm just now discovering the body? Who am I, if I'm not a writer? I have no replacement dreams waiting in the wings. (No, I can't actually imagine myself becoming a farmer.) I wait. I pray for a clue. Anything that might set me in some direction. I dreamt of this orchard and thought I had it in me, and though I've named them peaches, I don't actually know what that means.

I am looking for the ultimate writing prompt, and I look up and I see the sliver of moon peeking over the horizon. This sliver of moonlight is the hint I needed. The moon doesn't invent the light. It reflects with reverent beauty the light it dances with in the darkness. And as its wistful shimmering shines over the loamy earth, it creates stark shadows, and picks up the delicate dew upon the spider's new weaving. The fragile light is enough to make out the edges of an orchard that is coming...It isn't about me. It's a reflection.

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