“I never really thought about how when I look at the moon, it’s the same moon as Shakespeare and Marie Antoinette and George Washington and Cleopatra looked at.” – Susan Beth Pfeffer, Life As We Knew It
There are some nights, when I’m walking towards a large expanse of windows at the back of my house, that I’m mesmerized by the cool, crisp, unobstructed light of the moon.
It bathes my entire yard with an intense glow one might assume is coming from an exterior house light. I find myself just standing there like a young boy – utterly amazed by the astronomical body high above my head.
But beyond any famed or revered individuals from our history, it’s somewhat comforting to know that my grandfather, and his father before him, were all looking up at the very same moon.
The connection is cathartic for me.
To think that in the span of hundreds of years, generations of families have all found themselves mesmerized by this glowing orb as it bathes our histories with light.
The moon is always there playing witness, though quiet and trusted like a loyal confidant. It sees everything and yet reveals nothing – unappreciated for its majesty and unnoticed for its consistency.
It seems no matter how much everything drastically changes in life and living, the moon is always present after wars and natural disasters, fires and unimaginable destruction and the unfathomable heartbreak of just being a human being.
As Tahereh Mafi writes, “The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.”