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Monday, February 25, 2013

My relationship with The Man in the Moon

I want to share with you the story behind "The Man in the Moon".  When I was a young girl I had this beautiful cedar daybed that was placed so perfectly in front of a very large window taking up an entire wall of my bedroom.  I would sit there every night staring at the moon and the stars.  Like any bright eyed dreamer I'd make wishes on shooting stars, count lightning bugs, and gaze up at the moon.  My grandparents adopted and raised me. For that I'm very thankful.  My grandmother retired when I was around 8-9 years old and for her retirement gift they bought her a telescope.  She had no desire to use it but I was extremely excited to welcome this fascinating treasure to my bedroom.  That night I looked up at the moon and it was no longer so far away.  That night I discovered the face in the moon.  The man.  I could see him up close and I could see him from far away.  No matter what, he was there.  A constant friend.  I was raised in church as most Southern girls are.  I had a relationship with God but as a child that intimacy had not developed.  I prayed every night and then I would share my day with "The Man in the Moon".  I talked to him like a friend.  He listened and he didn't interrupt.  I cried and vented until I fell asleep and he would blanket me with his light.  He would lend his ear with no reserve and for that I was thankful.  It wasn't until I got older that I realized it was my way of talking to God without feeling the need to use such formal words.  I didn't know we didn't have to speak to him with certain dialect.  It was OK to talk to God like you were talking to your mother, friend, or stranger.  God knew and he listened.  God also had one up on the Man in the Moon...he didn't go away when the skies were cloudy.  He was a constant.  I now share everything with him but I must admit...I still look to the moon whenever I see him.  I know deep down who the "Man" is but it's nice to talk to an old friend every once in a while.  After all he was there when my first pet died.  He listened while I told him how sad I was when my best friend moved.  He looked on while I gloated about my first kiss.  He even saw it and kept the whole thing a secret.  He was there when I fell in love.  I'd like to think he looked away when I lost my innocence that November night in my grandfather's cotton field. He hugged me with his light when my heart was broken time and time again.  He lit the way for the gentleman that threw rocks at my window.  He was and I guess will always be the diary that I never really kept.  No need to lock him away or hold on to some small key.  He'll never tell.