Tonight, under the nearly full moon, I danced.
I went outside for qigong, like I’ve done all week, expecting quiet blossoming—like yesterday, when I wrote about the soft unfolding of things. But the desert had other plans. The air was loud with tree blooms, and booms from the neighbor’s drum. The moon, swollen and humming, called something wilder out of me.
And I answered.
My dance career came rushing back—not in steps or technique, but in that raw pulse, that wildness I’ve known in other seasons. It wasn’t choreographed. It wasn’t pretty. It was necessary.
A slip of the tongue gave the moment its name: Double Moon Dance. I meant to say devil moon, like my grandmother used to call it. That old devil moon boy gets me every time, she’d say when the moon made her feel undone. Unsettled. Changed.
And maybe that’s exactly what it did to me. Maybe I needed to come undone a little. Maybe the moon did too.
For a moment, we were mirrors. Me and the moon. The moon and me. She’s me, I’m her. Spinning on and around the earth together in a kind of quiet riot. Desert magic at its brightest. Blossoms in my blood.
What is the moon asking of you tonight?” or “Go outside. She’s waiting.
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