Sometimes we are torn. We don’t know what our priorities are. We don’t know what to focus on. The person in the painting is staring ahead with a determined countenance. They are also gazing at the moon.
How do we balance it all? There’s our work. There’s the stuff that is determined by society to be *IMPORTANT*. There are necessary tasks that are required in our day to day for our lives to be happy, healthy and sustainable. We must do what we need to do to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. The baby needs to be changed. There’s no getting around this stuff. We grit our teeth, gird our loins and we forge ahead. We make the 7:15 commuter train with moments to spare. We strive to provide for our loved ones and to do what we need to do to have a comfortable life.
But the Moon is there. She’s still waiting for us. She’s glowing with all the reflected luminescence of the Sun. She’s full of mystery, the planetary equivalent of Mona Lisa’s smile. She shines down on us. If you are very, very quiet and equally still, you may be privileged to hear her giggle like the tinkling of far off wind chimes. She is magic made visible.
I wish for you, in your focus on what is necessary, that you never lose sight of what is truly important.
I love mystery because seeking to understand is so pleasurable for me. When I was in grade school, my favorite type of book involved mysteries and possibilities on a grand scale. I loved the Ancient Astronaut genre. I devoured everything I could find on the premise that we were visited in ancient times by a superior and benevolent race of space beings that came to help. I poured over pictures of the Nazca lines in Peru, complex geometrical styling of animals and shapes that are miles long and were really only discovered when planes started flying over them. How did ancient people form such complex and mathematically precise drawings without our modern technology?! My young mind wondered with the possibilities. My thoughts were filled with crystal skulls, brain surgery done with rock knifes, ancient batteries and images on cave walls of flying machines and beings wearing what looked like space helmets. I scanned the skies for UFOs while I walked my dog at night. I waited for the aliens who come and feed you pancakes. I read everything I could find about Roswell and Project Blue Book. I hoped to stumble across a crop circle in the farmer’s field across the street from my apartment complex. The symbols in this painting came to me and reminded me of crop circles and mysterious geometrics.
I haven’t found what I was looking for, but sometimes, I still look up and wonder.
I hope that you still wonder too. I hope that you look up and think of all the infinite possibilities that are out there. I hope when you think of the Other (whether aliens from across the galaxy or across the border), that you believe that they come here with good intentions even if they don’t bring you pancakes.