Full Moons and Old Ladies

What a full moon can pull out of me…..an abundance of noticings.

“Noticings” – observations that require another glance, ones demanding awareness.

So here they are….

I look older, but not feeling older. Just more comfortable in the space I take up.

I am getting more cautious. Caution not only in where I step,  but who I want to talk to,  listen to,  share my time with.  I don’t want the company,  the chattiness that invades a quiet space and time I am guarding like it is in limited supply.

I don’t want to answer questions that start with “why”. If you have to ask a seventy-eight year old woman “why” – don’t.  Just make up your own answer and keep it to yourself.  Leave her alone.  Don’t put her in a position of trying to find an answer that suits,  or worse yet,  gets her lost in trying to remember why.  You are wasting your time, and even worse, wasting hers.

Keep me out of a room full of people talking.  Put me in a room with heads down working on private matters,  thinking,  writing,  making art.  With not one of them needing their neighbor’s comments or approvals.  If it has to be a room full of people,  have them all lost in the company of themselves,  having conversations with no interruptions.

The full moon reminds me that another month has likely gone by.  And I am looking around to see what I accomplished in that time – not much.

Okay. More baking. There is little that can match the anticipation of what is about to come out of an oven.  And I will completely clean the kitchen in the time it takes to bake something.  Whatever it is, needs to be brought into a place prepared and ready to receive.  I guarantee it will taste better if the kitchen has been cleaned up.

I didn’t make any promises to the moon I saw a month ago. So there is no guilt – only a tallying up.

I baked.

I met two new people, no probably one.

I laughed a bit more. And it was out loud.

I don’t know if the laughing made me feel comfortable afterwards but it just slipped out.  I soon got back to quiet.

I like my cats.  They are experts at taking care of themselves emotionally and ask little of me,  except when I walk past the treat jar and don’t open it. They sit on my pillow every morning at 5:30 a.m. and ask if today will be like yesterday.  I assure them it will.  They seem relieved to know that, and we all go about getting the day started.

I may have to switch to white wine or a more expensive red.  Older women can get a bit of acid reaction to some of the cheaper wines.  And by the time I take an antacid so as to have a second glass,  I think maybe a good single malt would have done the trick.  Besides, wine wants cheese and crackers.  Scotch just wants my company and stays around longer to hear all I have to say.

I would like to take myself out to dinner.  Just me.  But it’s a small town.  What happens if someone says, “May I join you?”  Could I really say, “No, but thanks for asking.”  Yes, I could.  I could do that now.  At seventy-seven I likely would have said, “Sure.” and then hoped they ate more than they talked.

The moon also reminds me of the work unfinished.  Drawings not made,  words not written,  needles not threaded and ready to jab into cloth.

I miss seeing the full moon shoving its way into my bedroom at night, through un-shaded windows. But now I have the shades and curtains in front of them – blocking sun and moon. It is a good thing that the moon now comes through the living room,  sneaks into the hall outside my door and waits for me to waken.

He is an old man looking for company and I wander out to watch and listen to his stories of what he saw on the other side of the world.  And his anticipation of what he will see next as he moves away from me.

He probably does not want to listen to a disgruntled old woman.  He has heard enough from them these past several hours and likely prefers the murmurings of young lovers.  Too bad.  This is all he gets from me.  No wonder he sneaks off into darkness and waits a month before calling me out again.

I must have been in this mood when I wrote the following poem.  I know I was seventy-eight – not seventy-seven.

If You Looked

If you looked

you would have

seen it in her face.

The way she looked

just now.


A glance in your direction

before she looked away,

back at her hands

holding onto each other

in her lap.


You would have noticed

how much was said

just then

in the way  she would not

return your gaze.


And saw how

her mouth was set,

her shoulders tensed,

how she pulled back

when you spoke.


If you looked

you would know

that you will stay on

the other side of the wall

and out of arms reach.


Leave her now

and let her go back

to the place

behind the door

that has no room for you


She will not look back at you

and does not want to hear

what you remember.

And you would have known that

if you looked.


S. Webster


I understood this woman from the time she popped into my head.  And left her alone as soon as I put her into words.

It is time to get something done.  Or at least started.

I’ll take a walk, and watch my step.

I’ll take a picture of something starting to come alive.

I’ll talk to someone I meet more than I will talk to their dog.

That’s my plan.

And I did go for that walk……

I must not be a rolling stone because I gathered more moss for my little moss beds on the bench. AND I did talk to two different people more than I talked to their dogs. Some improvement here in practicing social skills.

An Amazon order arrives later that will have cat litter, a cross cut shredder, the latest novel from Australian mystery writer, Jane Harper, and some personals. So much easier than having to find a store.

I think this is quite enough for now…..I sense a slight influence of Helen Garner’s essays in “Everywhere I look”. She is over eighty and totally honest in point of view. Brilliant Australian writer and worth looking up.

Til later…..