What’s the best antidote for the heavily gravid sensation of a restless mind at the full moon?
After several days of exhaustion severe enough to put me to bed well before the little guy’s eight o’clock curfew, tonight finds me still physically debilitated but unable to settle into anything like sleep while the hours march on.
The ends of a few threads of thought have been teased out of my jumbled mind, but I don’t have the concentration to work on big ideas. I want to talk about the wonders of parallels discovered in my recent reads about Barcelona, Africa, and Churchill and Orwell during WWII. I simply haven’t the wits to show you the hidden shapes I find so exciting.
Personal stories keep fluttering into my attention, but none of them seem universal enough to share, or impersonal enough to be offered up to the world at large without serious reflection upon the living characters and my own motivations. The last thing I’d like to write is a gossip site, and one gift of my religion is a prohibition against lashon hara*, or telling tales.
This is the miserable agitation of the in between. I’m between absorbing projects, books that can’t be put down, trips to be taken, and demands powerful enough to dictate orders to my attention.
My next necessary steps are all menial errands I’m too addled to arrange whilst moonstruck. Being bathed in silvery light suggests time better spent on wonder or magic, neither of which flow from my fingers tonight.
There’s little left to do but stand by an open window in October’s mild chill and watch light clouds scud across the brightness behind the shivering trees. Ships may sail past on the ocean; witches may fly by on the breeze.
I’ll stand by, resting my fallow fields and taking in the scene, saving the contemplation for another time, when solar brightness makes ratiocination real and lunacy the dim threat in dark corners of silvered minds.
*Lashon hara, literally “evil tongue,” includes gossip of any sort–even if it’s true–as well as telling lies and using words for deception.