Somehow, with the news horrible from Japan to the Middle East, the idea that there’s going to be a “super-moon” this weekend — a huge full moon, with that sunlit pile of rock closer to the earth than it’s been in 18 years — makes me happy.
Some people are apparently seeing all kinds of weird auguries in thus lunar perigee. Not me. I think of it more as a blessing, a kind of consolation.
I imagine it slowly appearing over the rim of the mountains, as though some gigantic hand were inflating an impossibly outsize balloon. It’ll be deep golden orange, the color of California poppies, the color of spring. Then as it reaches its full size, it’ll lift off into the sky, a giant floating ball of gold. And then slowly — but so fast, too fast — it’ll rise higher and become smaller, paler, whiter, until there it goes, just another full moon, and you walk back inside feeling as though you’ve just been graced with magic, in touch again with a sense of wonder.
This time I can only imagine it. The forecast here is for rain. But if the sky is clear where you are at moonrise, don’t hesitate: go outside with someone close to you and watch, and be grateful.