Sun Year, Moon Year, and Me

The sun and moon fight above me.

One circles me while I circle the other.

And they disagree about time and space and light and make me wonder which of them is right.

I was born after the stars had come out and the fires burned. The moon, just beginning to cycle back down in size, claimed me on that day. The sun, having already done its job, nodded once and stamped me into the time it keeps.

And so I was born twice.

The moon years are special because they exist only for those who look towards the sky and bless the shimmering silver and mark their lives to the rise and fall of tides that flow over them with every persecution and triumph and history repeating itself while the rest of the world continues to focus on the blinding, waning beams of sunshine.

But the days of the sun make the world go round and round again.

I want the sun to mark me, burn me, make me feel like I am only one little dot across the horizon.

One little dot is not special or bound or lit up from behind. It does not place itself disproportionate to its size, does not pull at the waters and force my gaze.

But I was born under the moon and the fires burned for a man who brought light to a world that was already full of sun.

This day begins as the sun goes down and the moon appears where it has always been. Take away the light to see the beauty in the darkness… take away my life to find where I’ve been hiding… take away the night and let me have the morning…

To wake up and see… see what I have been missing while the moon circled above me and the sun moved on without me…

I was born, and so I became and the time that passed fell away and now the night will fall and make my moon year complete.

I will be older and never wiser and always wondering why the sun and the moon could not dance together, even for a day.

Time of My Life

My parents just celebrated the birth of their ninth grandchild.

Nine children, all in the span of five years, and they’ve only just begun.

I am so happy for my sister, and thrilled for my parents who have evolved into this role so beautifully.

And yet…gulp…they have evolved into this role…without a thought, a word or, seemingly, a care.

I always knew I would get older, even have children of my own.  I was never fearful of aging, and looked forward to adulthood.

Well, here I am now; a woman, a Mrs., and, horrifyingly enough, a lady.  (My mother recently referred to women my age as ‘ladies’.  When I pointed that out to her, she paused and thought about what it meant to have a lady as a daughter.  The end result was that we shrugged and went with it, as awkward as it was for both of us.)

I love it, this freedom of living life on my own.  Growing up wasn’t too fun, but boy was it worth it.

And then I take a look at those who were the adults in my life, and the reality sets in.

I want to be a big girl so very badly.  I have so much to offer the world now.  It’s my time.

But…that means it’s no longer theirs.  They will sit back happily and enjoy the fruits of their labor.  They will smile and laugh and tell me stories of when they were my age, or when I was my child’s age, and I will…

…what will I do?

How will I relate to them?

Truth be told, I didn’t want to grow up to stand on my own.  I wanted to catch up to them, to stand next to them, so I could be a part of their world.

Now that world is their age, and I am still here, still trying to be what time will never allow me to be.