MOON WHISPERS

Rev. Dr. Kate Winters, “Dwelling in Presence,” January 2, 2024

We have skylights in our house, two in the dining room and one in the kitchen. Aside from the brightness they add, my favorite thing about them is walking in the darkness before dawn into the the kitchen when my eyes are suddenly flooded with moonlight. I didn’t know how powerful the light of the moon was until it came laser-like through the ceiling the first night I slept in this house. That time it was a full moon taking me totally off-guard. This morning it is a half moon shining in the window of my hermitage room bright enough to help me write in my journal.

Dwelling in presence as I am wont to do, especially in the early morning hours, the world outside tends to whisper to me. Sometimes it is just the whisper of silence. I bow to 16th century priest and mystic John of the Cross who said that “Silence is God’s first language.” It is deep, unfathomable, and full of mystery. It can also be soft, comforting, and full of peace. On days of inner turmoil, silence seems to cover me like a calming blanket.

This morning, the winter birds break that silence with familiar voices. First it was the cardinals, who seem to get up almost as early as I do. Now it is the doves, the finches, and chickadees. Often the crows arrive by about now, but they must be sleeping in. That’s okay with me for their whispers are not nearly as pleasant, often sounding like a big rambunctious family in the middle of a squabble.

Then there is the distinct whisper of the air. No matter how cold it is, I always crack my window open to meet the day. It makes me feel closer to my outdoor kin, even though my right shoulder freezes a little bit. Sometimes the air blows in with a “whoosh” and other times it creeps in silently, caressing me with the lightest of touches. It feels like a quiet blessing, that silent God speaking.

The moonlight has just been overtaken by the sun rising on the opposite side of the house. With it, the squirrels have come to pester the birds on the apple tree feeder. The mourning doves, nine of them in all, are unmoved and continue their breakfast activity beneath. I notice that with the sun, there is a different quantity and quality of sound outside. Two seagulls are flying over calling to one another and the doves just took off as one with their particular noisy flap of feathers. Less whisper now. Ah, and here come the crows!

I had a thought this morning that I don’t fully understand. As I read and reflect more about aging these days, I am feeling a stronger connection with the moon. Something about being struck by the moonlight on the way to morning coffee feels different than being jarred awake by the sun. Aging has a very different kind of radiance than the growing up years. If anyone has any thoughts about this, I’d love to read them. Until then I’ll be writing every morning in my journal by the moon, listening to creation’s whispers.