I love the moon. The moon and I go way back actually. I can remember even as a kid the moon would follow me around. Pretty cool. When I got older, I remember quiet nights standing in my backyard staring at the moon with the wind rustling in the pines. One time I stood on the rim of Bryce Canyon and watched the moon rise, a perfect giant red sphere, echoed by the glowing orange rock. Of course there’s been moonlight on the ocean or on the river down at the dock; moonlight peeking through the cracks in the mud hut in Cameroon to bid me goodnight as I drifted off to sleep; the moon watching over me as I slept in a sleeping bag in the back of a pick-up truck in Kodachrome Basin. The moon has been a friend, a guide, an inspiration at times.
But sometimes I think the moon is out to get me. See, I love to sleep in darkness. I manage to tolerate a nightlight in the hall since Anna and Will came along, for those middle-of-the-night wakings. But I like to block out any other unnecessary light. But sometimes, by some wrinkle in the natural order of things, somehow the moon manages to get to me, shine in my eyes, and wake me up. (For some reason I like to wake up Jon to share the joy with him, which he inexplicably does not appreciate!) Maybe this is the moon’s reminder to me that I’ve been neglecting my friend. Or maybe the moon is a bit of a prankster, a little bit cheeky, which seems at least plausible.