Moonpilgrims
Not all who gather in the night are wolves; some are smaller, humbler pilgrims of light.
Ah, the moon tonight. Spectacular—and not even full yet. Three days remain until the last full moon of summer dazzles us with its radiant beauty. Why do I love it so?
Lizards seem to think it is terrific. They scurry along the brick wall in little erratic, shadowy motions of energy. Not so much seen as felt.
To be honest, I prefer the pitch of night. Black so deep it disorients. Absence of illumination that isn’t just inconvenient, but dangerous. That’s when Jehovah’s majesty shines most terrifically—millions of points of light so far away their glow was born before humans even existed on our mud ball.
And yet, there is the moon. Earth’s companion for four and a half billion years.
In Sanskrit it was mā́s, the Greeks said mēn, the Latins mensis, Old English mōna—until it drifted into our modern lexicon as M.O.O.N. The word itself looks right, those two round orbs at its center echoing the shape that dominates the night sky.
Of course, stories swirl around the full moon: dogs, cats, and men turned wolf. As a boy, I feared werewolves—thanks in part to a too-early viewing of An American Werewolf in London. Like the glowing red eyes I wrote about elsewhere, they haunted little Woolfinius.
But fear gave way to awe. The moon still makes me want to be wild and free—running uninhibited on a beach, or just sitting still, bathed in silver. If I could fly, without need of breath, I’d make the 239,000-mile trip without hesitation. Loop a few times.
Write a name in the dust that would remain long after I passed.
I’ve written of it often—Dissolving into the Moon, Moon-Tide Soliloquy, Moonsong, Me and the Quarter Moon. Clearly, she matters to me.
Strange, though, how we long for a barren rock when Earth is the balanced garden designed for us. What odd creatures we are, to wish ourselves away from perfection.
All of this drifts through my head as I start the engine of my ancient Mercedes 4x4 for a midnight taquito run. In the dim glow of that stellar mirror, something small stirs on the windshield. At first I assume it’s a fallen leaf from the mulberry tree.
Then it moves.
That’s no leaf.
The headlights reveal a tiny gecko, marvelous in its designs, somehow clinging to smooth glass. I step out to scoop him up, but his lizard-sense screams RUN! He vanishes into the engine bay.
I’m about to pull away when another dark shape scurries across the glass. Then another. And another. I climb onto the running board and peer up—only to find a lizard town hall convened on the roof.
Forty or fifty tiny heads swivel, tongues flicking, eyes catching the moonlight so they glitter like stars themselves.
“Uh, hi guys. Wh-what are you up to tonight?” I whisper.
I like lizards. Of all the creeping things, they’re my favorite. But this—this is a lot of lizards.
Then, as if some hidden switch were thrown, they scatter in a rush. Some scramble down the tires, most simply leap into the dark. In an instant, the roof is bare.
What drew them here en masse? Heat from the hood? The nearness of insects? Or did they gather for reasons beyond my grasp—drawn to the same ancient beacon that keeps me looking skyward?
Neither the lizards nor the moon answer. Only the crickets whisper: chrii, chrii, chrii.
Fine. I get the point, natural world: dumb human wouldn’t understand anyway.
I climb back into the Mercedes, still half-expecting a tail to flick against the glass. But the windshield is empty, reflecting only that pale disc above. The hum of the engine feels louder than usual in the hush of the night.
Maybe the lizards were after warmth. Maybe moths. Maybe nothing more than chance. Still, I can’t shake the sense that they were pilgrims, gathered for the same reason I step outside every chance I get: to bask in borrowed light, to feel a pull older than memory.
The road opens before me, silvered by moonlight. The taquitos can wait. I drive slow, a poor lizard among many, one more soul in the company of Moonpilgrims, chasing the glow that makes the dark bearable.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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