The Song of Night
Dear Readers and Friends…
A month ago when the moon was slowly rising I wrote the piece below. I wrote it with friends from across the globe in mind and with women in mind who live in my community with little choice but to become mothers or open little grocery shops and follow tradition. This piece is about all of us, our journey of becoming.
The Song of Night
The song of night rises from the earth.
One insect chimes and another joins in a shrill yet soothing chorus, the next and the next harmonizing with the one before, lilting up, then down around the long notes and in between something calls once, twice, and pauses, waiting.
The moon, larger than ever before, rises without rush above the mountain that borders this small valley. The rich green trees and vines are no more than dark shapes through which the animals tread and shuffle, climb and sleep. The witches creatures come alive. Bats swoop and dance; vast moths beat wings too heavy for their bodies; toads hop into the dog bowl; tarantulas linger in door frames; snakes move through the long grass and the moon slowly continues her journey into the highest sky.
Years before women grew gardens, raised babies and made chicken soup and became whatever they were allowed to become. We still have babies and make chicken soup. There is a rooster in my patio today ready for killing. Becoming is complicated.
There are stories we live by. A great mix of the beliefs of times present and past boiled up in the chicken soup on the stove and served at dinner with a pinch of salt or a dash of lime or softened with a spoonful of cream.
The moon languidly rises and falls setting a pace like a deep tide within our bodies, sending us down to the ground the ocean rises from. In her levity she anchors us. While the sun draws us out and up the moon sets us back down and invites us into the secret world of night.
Night is the time of story.
The old lady has closed the bible and shut the churches; the witch in the woods remembers she is just a mythical imagining as she stirs her cauldron; the wolf does not howl at the moon; the young woman wonders if the magic she was told about as a child is real and sighs knowing it was made up, only wishing some of it could sparkle on her fingertips.
She steps onto a path embroidered by moonlight and shadows of tree branches. She has a longing that grips her and a tiredness that almost drowns her. That same woman once had bright eyes that sparkled and a smile that could bewitch anyone. But she walked a path on which she did not belong. She thought she could meld herself to a different way.
She sees clearly in the light of night and knows something once again, something she’d lost sight of. The fortune written on the lines of her palms was always there for her to see. She doesn’t need to look at her hands to know it. The soft earth feels comforting.
She gathers a handful of cilantro, a shiny black chile, and lemon scented leaves. The pot is ready. The soup has been simmering a long while. She has always made it the way she was told but tonight she adds new ingredients. She tosses in the garden gatherings and savours the scent that rises as the leaves wilt and the pepper of the chile tickles her nose. It’s a small boldness to change tradition. A sigh comes out of her unexpected as a strained pulling knot undoes itself. She feels more like her own good self.
Wishing you well,
Lucy
p.s. Upcoming events …. retreat with me at my medicine farm (the main veggie garden below) in southern Nicaragua, Apothefinca in November this year, or March 2025 - click here for details
