A slice of self

Tonight I walked quietly with two people from work, in what felt like solidarity and solitude. I could hear the clicking of my boots and feel the city through the sleeve of my coat. I saw a slice of moon and said out loud that it was a pretty one. A pretty moon, as if each night there is a different moon; not the same moon with different parts visible.

I remember a time when I felt born again, not in a God-like way, but in a life-like way. In a way that made walking down the street, drinking hot coffee, and listening to John Coltrane feel new. I remember when I wrote on this blog every little thing I thought, and every little thing I felt, because it was the only way to make a record of it; the only way to have a witness to what was taking place inside and around me.

I felt like a teenager again then, even though I was already grown, married, a mother, and divorced. Everything was loud and fast and unstoppable; passionate, confusing and awake. And I wrote on this blog every day, about the way things are and the way things aren't, and it served as proof that it all happened... just the way it all happened.

I know the slice of moon I saw tonight is the same full moon I've seen before, and I know that the whole self I see tonight is the same slice of self that I once was. And it seems to me that I'm just like the moon; sometimes whole, sometimes parts, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden; but always the same self, and always moving in solidarity and in solitude.