Last
weekend gave rise to a Super Blood Wolf Moon. A very special moon. A moon at
its closest point to the earth. A moon full at mid-winter when it is said that
wolves would howl into the night from the snow covered land surrounding Native
American villages. A moon eclipsed by the earth, kissed with red. As with so
many things in life, there are multiple aspects but it is blood that is most
important.
The
first Blood Moon that I witnessed preceded Halloween of 2004, a spectacle that
I shared with my oldest grandson who was just five and half years old at the
time. This was our first “guys’ trip.” We could have just as easily called it
our Dinosaur Volcano Blood Moon trip.
We
traveled from Colorado Springs that weekend, setting our course south (a
direction that brings me much comfort). The first leg of our journey saw us cross
the Colorado/New Mexico border by way of Raton Pass then turning east in the
direction of Texas.
At
the border with Texas, there is Clayton Lake State Park. The park has one of
the most extensive dinosaur trackways in North America. What better way to
start our trip than walking where dinosaurs walked, by witnessing the fossilized
footprints of creatures that now only live best in our imaginations.
My
grandson ran me ragged over those grounds. We saw every site of interest. The
highlight of which was my grandson and I looking out from a foot bridge over a dry
shallow river bed the color and texture of moonscape. It was covered with the
rounded prints of thick-skinned herbivores and the three toed prints of the long-toothed
creatures that pursued them.
From
Clayton Lake Park, we headed back west the way we came making for Capulin
Volcano State Park. Capulin is an extinct volcano (my level of courage only
extends so far!). Visiting something so ancient, something that helped to
define the landscape, define the earth with my young grandson at my side grants
a particular perspective on past, present, and future. Our trek was not limited
to the rim, but we also followed a trail down into the crater. We walked on rocky
ground and among stubborn ragged vegetation aware that at one time this hole in
the mountain was bare and gaping and spewing ash and lava into the air and over
the land.
Exhausted
from miles of travel and long hikes, we made our way back into Colorado for
fast food and our hotel in Trinidad. We ate our food and watched tv waiting for
nightfall and the lunar eclipse. When the time came, we went out into the cold.
Scrub oak and small pinon pine trees were dark twisted silhouettes in the
night. Above us the moon shone dully in the sky, a celestial eye, unblinking
and bloodshot. My grandson pointed up toward the orb and breathlessly uttered, “Look,
Bumpa. The BLOOD. RED. MOON.”
As
a post script to this trip and to my grandson’s beautiful innocent enthusiasm,
I took one of the many photos from the trip and scanned it into my computer.
Ineptly, I did a rough cut and paste of a T-Rex image into a picture of my
grandson looking at a Clayton State Park sign. When I showed this composite to
him, he looked at me wide-eyed and said, “Bumpa! I didn’t even see that when we
were there!”
For
me, the moon makes time fluid. Starting from the moon, I flow with ink black waters
from one memory, one story to the next. And those stories are not only behind
me. As-long-as the moon rises in the sky, the headwaters for those stories are not
yet reached, and there are memories upon memories to be made.
I
am not sure what everyone else goes through when feeling stressed, I can only
speak for myself. There were times growing up when I would feel a nervous
twinge in the pit of my stomach. A feeling of being a little disconnected, a
little lost to the moment. If my parents were home, I would seek their
proximity and would feel better. If they were out, I would go to their bedroom.
There was something calming about just crossing the threshold. I would sit in
one of their chairs or explore my father’s top dresser drawer until I felt at
ease. In that drawer I would touch his tie pins and cufflinks, poke at his pads
containing notes and bits of his life, and feel the wooden beads of his rosary
slip through my fingers. In finding my parents or the symbols of my parents I
was reassured and made safe.
It
has been several decades since I have lived with my parents, in fact they are
no longer around to visit much less live with. But I feel they raised me well,
and the strength I once sought from them I have attempted to pass along to my
wife and children (and have watched them do the same with their families).
Still there are times as an adult that I get worried, that a knot twists in my belly.
For the past two years especially, I have felt that knot daily.
This
is not a tangle within me that can be eased by a visit to mom’s and dad’s
bedroom, or by the cool feel of wooden beads on my fingertips. It cannot be
eased in talking to my wife, or children, or friends. In many ways sharing my
feelings just tightens the knot because there is no one to invalidate my fears.
In
the microcosm of one’s life, parents, family, the circle of close friends help smooth
rough spots. Similarly for American society, our government functions much the
same way for citizens – at least for me. When the world turns frightening as on
September 11th, knowing my government and my president were there to
defend us and to rally a world of allies in support of us gave me some calm upon
those turbulent seas.
I
don’t have that security now. Our president works to divide people. Our
president works to subvert faith in the judiciary, the congress, law
enforcement. Our president works to separate us from a world of friends while
embracing well known enemies. I cannot at this time look to my government to
untie my knots, the government has become fractured, ultra-partisan, and
contentious or servile depending on the side of the aisle that is viewed. It
has been made this way by the master of knots, Donald Trump.
When
the nation’s “father” is the stressor and the uncertainty, we are without a
core. Rather than a cohesive orb, we have become fractured flotsam in irregular
orbits about a volatile center that seems to threaten a big bang or big crunch
at any moment. We have no room to enter for peace, no words to read that can
bring comfort. Even our founding document is being used and taken advantage of
in ways the framers never imagined.
I
want better for my country. I want better guardians than the polarized few we
have elected. I want a president and representatives that think first of what
is best globally, nationally, and personally for the citizens. Now it seems all
about power, the president has it, his party wants to keep it, and opposition
wants to take it away. Where has love, peace, and understanding retreated to in
the presence of paranoia and fear? Where has the security gone? Where is my
parents’ bedroom, and the drawer with the icons of my father?
