Bitter Waters
Monday on the islands brought torrential rains to what should have been a balmy day in early September.
We stood our ground, determined to make the most of our Hawaii vacation. A museum seemed like a good idea for the day.
In the midst of exhibits on Hawaiian culture, we found ourselves immersed in a display of the moon phases, planting times, and customs associated with each phase. Our memories of moonless nights shooting the stars awakened my desire to find a break in the storms and shoot some stars amid the palm trees. A few days later, we got that opportunity. The stars were sparkling one night for about a half an hour between rain showers. A flurry of activity netted a few lovely photos of stars twinkling between the palm fronds. Then just as suddenly we found ourselves scampering for cover, equipment in hand, as the first drops of the next torrential downpour began to fall.
As far back as I can remember, the moon made me happy. It ruled the night, and night was the time of dreams. Dreams were the playground for the soul. Dreams spoke a truth that could not be spoken during the day. If the moon made me happy, the stars made me ecstatic. Fervent longings wrapped themselves around the stars. I wished upon a star, slept beneath the stars, told stories beneath the stars, and happened upon a constellation or two that I learned to recognize. The night brought good things. In the morning I’d find myself dodging Mom’s wrath. But night brought respite.
Mom was a bitter person. Not to everyone, of course, for there were many she impressed with her talents. But there were those in her immediately family who knew a different story. Too many children too quickly had changed her from a light hearted young woman who could take on the world to a grouchy and anxious woman quite capable of terrifying her children. I don’t think she meant for that to happen: it happened in spite of herself. In the morning, Mom barked orders to her little army, and she took no prisoners. By midday we had exasperated her. By night time – well, the night was ours.
Mom was happier when the stars came out or when the moon was full. She would show us the stars and talk to us about the phases of the moon. Night was her wind down time, a time when bitter waters receded. When the night came, there were no more dishes to do, no clothes to iron, no sheets to change, no floors to vacuum. She could relax. And so could we.
Mom was a bitter person. Not to everyone, of course, for there were many she impressed with her talents. But there were those in her immediately family who knew a different story. Too many children too quickly had changed her from a light hearted young woman who could take on the world to a grouchy and anxious woman quite capable of terrifying her children. I don’t think she meant for that to happen: it happened in spite of herself. In the morning, Mom barked orders to her little army, and she took no prisoners. By midday we had exasperated her. By night time – well, the night was ours.
Mom was happier when the stars came out or when the moon was full. She would show us the stars and talk to us about the phases of the moon. Night was her wind down time, a time when bitter waters receded. When the night came, there were no more dishes to do, no clothes to iron, no sheets to change, no floors to vacuum. She could relax. And so could we.
Surprisingly, Mom did not mind if we told stories when the lights when out. My sisters and I shared a bedroom, and we told one another stories. Night was a time for creativity, for self-expression. Night was a time when we could talk about everything that was taboo during the day when Mom was about. She was not one to be challenged, nor did she allow criticism, tears, nor too much laughter. Life was a lot of work and serious business. No time for living.
There was an opening in the wall of her Germanic descent that allowed for these moments of spontaneity as night fell. Night was the cover, an unmistakable permission for some life to slip between her regimented control over absolutely everything. However briefly, we were allowed to be ourselves as long as we did not bother her. Her bitter waters could rest. And so could we. Night reigned supreme in our imaginations. We left the terrors of the day and slipped between the cracks into a world where joy could be remembered. Not every night , of course, but now and again.
Mom was an artist. Artists dream. Dreams need downtime to mature. So, too, children need time to mature. In the winter, nights were longer, though I could not find the time to enjoy them when middle school brought increased workloads. And so, the arrival of night no longer signaled rest, nor relaxation, nor play, nor down- time. The balance was lost. Dream time had to be squeezed in between classes, homework assignments, chores, and the like. Night, in all that it entailed, was still needed.
Feminine energies grow stronger at night. These energies enliven the creative spirit. We are drawn to the night when the need to develop ourselves is felt. Whether in dreams, in creative endeavors, or in relaxation beneath the stars, the night provides an avenue of exploration, of imagination, of inspiration. I was three when Mom first noticed that I was a storyteller. Night was a time for reading stories. One thing led to another.
The powerful, deep feminine awakens in the wee hours of the morning when the sun is still asleep and children’s dreams slip quietly under the cover of darkness to the realms where the creative forces of maternal energies abide. We encounter there what gives us the most courage, the most wisdom, the most redeeming look at ourselves and the world. There was a time in my life when I lost touch with the powerful, deep feminine. One night, she came calling. Like a longing so deep I thought I might die. She was not to be ignored. Thereafter, she visited often in the night until I learned to pay heed to her longings and give her space to breathe in my life. Her arrival signaled the beginning of another phase of my life. I recognized in her arrival the beginnings of another phase of spiritual development that was needed. That spiritual development began a greater vision of our role on the planet.
Night blesses the earth with a gentle reprieve and loving tenderness. The fiery light of the sun gives way and invites cooling and refreshment. Shadows fall and a weary world twinkles as night folds all creation with a blanket of stars above. Night invites reflection, contemplation. When we are bathed in moonlight, the world begins to feel softer, more romantic, more at peace. Night invites abundant regeneration. When we are weary and alone, the night calls forth our deepest longings for restoration. The powerful, deep feminine stirs at night and rejuvenates us. The world is born anew in the womb of night. When morning comes again, it begins softly with sunrise.
Life on this planet depends upon regular return to what night invites. When we take time to reflect and contemplate, to rejuvenate ourselves, everyone benefits. When we do not, everyone suffers. As a collective, we listen to the rhythm of day and night, the fiery ride of the sun through the sky and the every changing phases of the moon at night. People in primitive cultures knew this well; but all cultures are equally affected by these cycles.
Mom left herself and her children an opening when she allowed bitter waters to recede at night. She left an opening for rest, creativity, reflection, and contemplation. She left an opening for dreams. Though I don’t think she knew it, the opening she left allowed us access to the deep, powerful feminine. And so, she allowed night to bestow her wonders on each of us.
The moon has long been thought of as feminine, and the moon phases historically were associated with women’s menses in many cultures. I enjoyed the museum’s reminders of what has always been important culturally regarding night and the moon. We lose track of our roots culturally, but we continue to be influenced by these forces of nature day by day. There is wisdom in being aware of how they are influencing us.
