Posted by Kromey at 2:28pm Oct 13 '11Last night, I looked up at the moon as we left my parents' house after dinner and were heading home. She (I've never felt right calling the moon "it", but I've always made myself use that word to avoid the strange looks I otherwise get; "she" has always felt to me the more appropriate pronoun) was almost still full, just the barest sliver of [private] starting to show, and despite all day being quite overcast (actually, all week...), the sky last night was almost entirely devoid of clouds. Strangely, though, I couldn't see any stars -- nothing but the moon and, below and just to her left, as if waiting in attendance, Jupiter shining more brightly than I can ever remember.
And the moon was just so very bright! The whole sky was aglow with her light, and the few tiny wisps of clouds I could see stood out as bright white puffs of cotton against the night sky. There was no twilight from the sun, and my parents live far enough away from the city that there wasn't any light pollution to speak of; the whole sky was just lit up with her light.
That rational part of my brain is screaming at me, saying this is ridiculous, stupid, childish, that I'm trying to ascribe meaning to meaningless phenomena. It's a damned powerful urge to just dismiss this; my rational brain's been fully in charge for so long, it's quite used to me listening solely to it and doing only what it says. But despite that, I could swear this:
It felt like there was someone up there, looking down at me and smiling upon me.
And then this morning, when I got out of my car and starting walking toward the building for work, my coffee in one hand and my breakfast in the other, I glanced up at the sky as I was waiting to cross the street.
The sun was just beginning to rise; most of the sky was still a dark gray-blue color (overcast again -- go figure!), but there was a pinkish-orange light cast on the clouds to the east, the first colors of the sunrise. And looking at the play between that colorful light and the [private]s being cast on the clouds themselves, I saw a face smiling down on the world. I didn't feel anything this morning, like I did looking up at the moon last night, no connection or significance to it, but even the rational part of my brain can't help but take notice. (My rational brain's never liked to just write off coincidences.)
I've never taken to the notion of "signs". I've always just dismissed the idea as people looking for meaning in the randomness of the world, that someone looking into that patternless chaos will find exactly what they want to find. But signs are supposed to be subtle, aren't they? This was like taking a swing with a 20-pound sledge -- a sign meant for someone who doesn't believe in signs, maybe?
If it is a sign, what does it mean? Is it someone's happiness with the direction I'm now exploring? Or someone's amusement at how silly I'm being? Or is it what my rational brain is trying to say it is, just random meaningless blips in the chaos, neat to see but signifying nothing?
And the moon was just so very bright! The whole sky was aglow with her light, and the few tiny wisps of clouds I could see stood out as bright white puffs of cotton against the night sky. There was no twilight from the sun, and my parents live far enough away from the city that there wasn't any light pollution to speak of; the whole sky was just lit up with her light.
That rational part of my brain is screaming at me, saying this is ridiculous, stupid, childish, that I'm trying to ascribe meaning to meaningless phenomena. It's a damned powerful urge to just dismiss this; my rational brain's been fully in charge for so long, it's quite used to me listening solely to it and doing only what it says. But despite that, I could swear this:
It felt like there was someone up there, looking down at me and smiling upon me.
And then this morning, when I got out of my car and starting walking toward the building for work, my coffee in one hand and my breakfast in the other, I glanced up at the sky as I was waiting to cross the street.
The sun was just beginning to rise; most of the sky was still a dark gray-blue color (overcast again -- go figure!), but there was a pinkish-orange light cast on the clouds to the east, the first colors of the sunrise. And looking at the play between that colorful light and the [private]s being cast on the clouds themselves, I saw a face smiling down on the world. I didn't feel anything this morning, like I did looking up at the moon last night, no connection or significance to it, but even the rational part of my brain can't help but take notice. (My rational brain's never liked to just write off coincidences.)
I've never taken to the notion of "signs". I've always just dismissed the idea as people looking for meaning in the randomness of the world, that someone looking into that patternless chaos will find exactly what they want to find. But signs are supposed to be subtle, aren't they? This was like taking a swing with a 20-pound sledge -- a sign meant for someone who doesn't believe in signs, maybe?
If it is a sign, what does it mean? Is it someone's happiness with the direction I'm now exploring? Or someone's amusement at how silly I'm being? Or is it what my rational brain is trying to say it is, just random meaningless blips in the chaos, neat to see but signifying nothing?