Last night I sang to the moon. It was my small bow to the seasonal change.
When I lived on Long Island nature was there, but I ignored the signs, the little cues that tell us that the seasons are changing. I remember being surprised when the leaves changed color or when the crocuses bloomed.
There was a lot more distraction on Long Island, things like traffic and parking and lines and crowds.
I began to see that my life there was empty and sad. I was unhappy there and didn’t discover until later that it wasn’t the place, it was me. I began to break away from my life there and the people I knew.
I needed a new place, a spot that I could heal and discover the person within. I needed to make some new memories.
My new home, a small village nestled in a valley in upstate NY is a quiet peaceful place where the line between nature and human civilization is almost nonexistent.
The absence of daily hassle to live on Long Island allows me to pay attention to the signs of the seasons, marking time in the way that it has been done for centuries.
In the fall and winter, you feel everything drawing inward, responding to the cycles of nature, our Earth.
Fields lie fallow, soil sleeping renewing itself for planting in the spring. Trees lose their proud colors and wait until the Mother gives them the sign to grow.
The light is thin and the colors are muted and washed out in fall. In the winter the light changes, refracting off the ever present snow.
In the morning, after sunrise, there is a deep profound quiet. I’ve never experienced that before. An invitation to stop, look and listen.
The place has become home to me, I feel it inside me now, an organic, intrinsic part of my self.
The quiet has forced me to look inward to challenge myself and stop hiding from the world.
So when I stopped on that dark country road and sang to the moon to celebrate the change of season, I knew it as something from deep within me.
I was honoring Nature, thanking her for helping me on my journey.
I was singing my song, my life.