Moonrise and Moonset

Through the windows of the disorganized living room, the full and pale moon hangs above the dark trees this morning. The moon is silent in its imperceptible slide toward the horizon while invisible traffic growls a faint continuo that reminds me of the ongoing rush of accomplishment and accumulation.

Having heard an inspiring talk on the Zen full-moon ceremony of repentance and renewal in the morning, my mother, my step-father, two sisters and I did our best to watch the moon’s rising last night. My weather app told me that 8:50 was the appointed time but, not being familiar with the local geography, I had a harder time calculating where exactly we could best view its rise.

Full moons rising over the horizon are astonishing events. The moon looms large as she launches herself skyward yet shrinks even within minutes as she climbs in the evening sky. But yesterday (actually the day before) was a ‘pink’ moon, the spring ‘supermoon which is 7% brighter and 15% larger than normal. We hoped to witness this for ourselves.

It wasn’t an uncomplicated adventure. We had spent the day helping my mom and step-dad move from their independent living unit to an assisted care unit in the retirement home where they have happily resided for over a decade. Their new two-room suite is still only partially decorated and their old place, where my sisters and I spent the night, is filled with no-longer-needed furniture, books and various objects of beauty and memory. But yesterday was ‘check-in day’ for their new life, so my sisters and I journeyed from our respective homes far away to support this poignant and developmentally appropriate transition.

The maintenance crew had already moved the big stuff that could fit from the old place to the new but, on our journey to ‘check-in’, we were left wheeling a cart through the quarter-mile of halls to their new destination. The cart was piled high with a small bookcase, several containers holding various medicines and objects of value (wonderfully including one container of smooth and lovely stones), a suitcase full of clothes and the cart-load was topped precariously and vigilantly by a two-foot-high cactus. Though all agree on the wisdom of this transition, the actuality of the walk together and some sense of the finality of these new temporary arrangements were with me as I guided the cart that my step-father, without quite knowing where he was going, was pushing.

The staff and the residents of the new place were most solicitous and welcoming. Friends and a few residents stopped by with big smiles and messages of support. Everyone knows this is a difficult moment. Stepping into what is next, we must leave behind the familiar comforts of our known world and step anew into what is to come. We might say that this happens in every moment of our lives as what we know becomes the past and we step again into that which is to come. But there are sometimes moments in our lives where the reality of the necessary leaving behind and unavoidable beginning of the unknown are vivid and filled with emotion.

As per Pennsylvania state regulations both my mother and step-father, upon arrival were fitted with ‘wander-guards’—ankle or wrist devices the size of a large watch— explained and affixed apologetically and gently. ‘For the first three days, then we’ll evaluate.’ No one objected but everyone except my step-father appeared slightly uncomfortable with the new arrangement.

For our moon viewing, we let the aide know we were going outside, then headed for the elevator. Just as we were about to step on, a loud alarm rang—the tracking devices were working—which, I suppose, is a good thing. No one came rushing or even seemed to notice (which seemed to be both a good thing and a troubling thing) but we headed back to the nurse’s station to get the further necessary permissions to allow us to breach the confines of their new accommodations.

We eventually got outside into the lovely warm evening dark. My step-father and I waited on a nearby bench as my mom and my sisters took off around the corner of the building to where we supposed the best view to be. They returned twenty minutes later, talking companionably but having seen no moonrise, pink or otherwise.

I maintained my assertion of the accuracy of my reported rising time, so we wondered about our choice of viewing directions and suspected trees or clouds as the culprits in our non-event. After calling for assistance to open the locked front door and walking and shuffling slowly back to their place at the end of the hall on the second floor, we did see the moon hazily and rather unspectacularly rising from a cloudbank through a window at the end of their hall.

The three kids hugged and kissed their parents goodnight, professing our true love—truly grateful for vaccines and the privilege to be with them in this transition. They headed toward their separate beds in their still antiseptic-looking bedroom while my sisters and I returned to the half-emptied apartment that had been theirs.

This morning, I woke up in an unfamiliar room and wondered if I might see this fabled moon at least in her setting. Wandering through the dark and partially unconstructed room to the window, I found it waiting obligingly just over the trees outside my window.

Miraculous and ordinary, poignant and practical—love and loneliness intertwinkle to fill all our days.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)