I’ve spent so many sleepless nights not seeing your luminescent shifting face quietly observing my world.
Ever since I was a little girl I’d wake up with a start in the night and not know why, so I would cry.
“Go back to sleep,” they’d say.
I didn’t realise you were calling me to wake up.
As I grew older, I got even more confused by these night time wake up calls. I wondered, what was wrong with me?
Insomnia they said.
Insomnia I said.
But moon, there were glimpses of your magical powers. I’d wake up inspired and make art. That’s not normal, they’d say. Go back to sleep.
That’s not normal. Go back to sleep.
I got so wrapped up in those swirling thoughts, trapped in a spiralling pitfall of dark, that I became lost. I couldn’t see the light of the night. I’d push against this deep feeling inside. I’d eat. I’d drink. I’d watch TV, anything to avoid listening. To you. To me.
I didn’t realise that which I was most afraid of, the quiet embrace of the night, was what I needed to heal.
So moon, you persisted, you wanted me to Wake Up. You wrote it in my dreams, you sent animals to call, you sent poems to write, and songs to sing.
Then I took those dream numbing drugs to drown you out.
But you stayed with me as I was tossing and turning in all those beds, switching on lights and fighting with nights, hiding from your knowing smile.
Until one day I surrendered. I couldn’t fight you anymore. In a wild wail I finally I woke up that part of me which was desperately filled with a yearning,
A secret longing,
to howl at you, moon.
And so, with a wild woman sister holding each hand, we howled and we wept and we laughed and we discovered that: during those long dark nights when we felt oh, so alone.
We were never alone.
You were there all along. Guarding us. Watching us. Calling us to be with you.
The moon she says, Don’t be afraid of no dark nights. Don’t be afraid of no darkness. Don’t be afraid of the wild inner child. Write the dreams. Cry the tears. Sing the old songs and be with mama moon.
Now-a-nights when I feel your gentle tug, I don’t resist. I simply open the door, go outside and listen. I share my secret fears, dreams and desires. I dance with the stealthy cats, early birds and forgotten street-lamps under the starlit cloud-strewn night sky.
And when I’m tired you lullaby me back to sleep. You knit together stories where I meet my guides—who, like you, remind me that love is coiled up in my fear. My sensitivity holds my power and my darkness is my light.
Thank you for your medicine. May I never forget to see the beauty in your ageless ancient face.
You’ve seen me in the dead of the night when I’ve been writhing in intense emotional pain, self loathing, and doubt. You’ve blessed my tears and held me in a loving gaze.
And now I sit at your feet and learn to not judge the fears, let the tears fall, and embrace each voice from the sweet shy to the soul shaking howl.
I hear you. I hear your call. And I rise up, with a wild woman sister in each hand… dreaming ourselves awake.
First published in The Urban Howl, 2016