hunter's moon
October the 18th | It is the night of the Full Hunter's Moon. There's a party to attend this evening.
Shannon is in town. It had been her birthday on the 9th, so she decided to pay Oklahoma a visit. She is radiant and I see her and don't know what to say. What do you say upon seeing a friend from your on fire days, that you haven't truly spoken with in over two and a half years? You say that you don't know what to say, and you look into her beaming eyes and soak up the happiness that has flooded the room. I say it. We'd both had the same idea to plant kisses on each others' cheeks; she beats me to it. She hugs me and holds my hand. A prayer begins the potluck meal.
Familiar faces abound and I am overwhelmed with indecisiveness. A few persons seem to vaguely imply that they have no interest in conversation with me, which I brush off and move on from, trying not to be hurt. [Looking back now, it very well could have been {and likely was} I who pushed them away with my downcast eyes and apparent disinterest. In my classic and klutzy way I communicate introversion with my body language and gaze, all motivated by the fact that I can't bear to see their eyes when they {will?} lose interest in me. Preposterous fears, but they haunt me still.] I realize I am being ridiculous and that no one is out to conspire against me. I make effort to engage, stumbling through re-introductions and catchings-up with old acquaintances. People are generally nice.
Dessert was not on the invitation as an option to bring (instead only main dishes and sides), but I managed to miss that and have prepared a Salted Rose & Honey Pie. Too late to turn back. I notice several other dessert items on the counter and breathe relief.
A gentleman approaches my seat upon finding out that the pie was my fault, and proceeds to rave about it and ask questions about the crust and the pink Himalayan sea salt. I am amused and flattered and grateful; this was my first pie to make, ever. His wife joins him and we talk about the complexity of the flavors of coffees and about magnesium. Mr. Dillingham (that's his name, I learn) steps away and returns with yet another slice of pie, saying he wants his son (who is an avid pie-maker, as it turns out) to try it. I realize that he's talking about Kyle Dillingham and am flabbergasted. I've loved Kyle's fiddle-stylings since I first heard him at Shannon's wedding in 2008. HE LIKES PIE, TOO. This is exciting. [I later learned that the slice was unable to make it to Kyle, but there is time and second chances for that.]
Oddly and magically, Shannon and I get a private moment or seven to talk about real things. Topics that permeate the conversation include:
- church
- awe
- worship
- gratefulness
- pressure
- the truth
- relief
- awakening
- focus
- repetition
- ritual
- passion
- when we were on fire
- why fire is still reachable
Time feels like it stops for us there (I know it's still moving because there are people graciously waiting for me during this wide-eyed and tear-studded encounter). I am crying and listening and processing and being filled with epiphany about trying to fix things and why that hasn't worked. This powwow is a healing balm. I force my heart to open and receive it.
Divinely-set, this reunion was. I believe it, and I accept it. Coincidence is a convenient and lazy credit, so I set my heart against it here. Shannon and I are keeping in closer touch.
Shannon is in town. It had been her birthday on the 9th, so she decided to pay Oklahoma a visit. She is radiant and I see her and don't know what to say. What do you say upon seeing a friend from your on fire days, that you haven't truly spoken with in over two and a half years? You say that you don't know what to say, and you look into her beaming eyes and soak up the happiness that has flooded the room. I say it. We'd both had the same idea to plant kisses on each others' cheeks; she beats me to it. She hugs me and holds my hand. A prayer begins the potluck meal.
Familiar faces abound and I am overwhelmed with indecisiveness. A few persons seem to vaguely imply that they have no interest in conversation with me, which I brush off and move on from, trying not to be hurt. [Looking back now, it very well could have been {and likely was} I who pushed them away with my downcast eyes and apparent disinterest. In my classic and klutzy way I communicate introversion with my body language and gaze, all motivated by the fact that I can't bear to see their eyes when they {will?} lose interest in me. Preposterous fears, but they haunt me still.] I realize I am being ridiculous and that no one is out to conspire against me. I make effort to engage, stumbling through re-introductions and catchings-up with old acquaintances. People are generally nice.
Dessert was not on the invitation as an option to bring (instead only main dishes and sides), but I managed to miss that and have prepared a Salted Rose & Honey Pie. Too late to turn back. I notice several other dessert items on the counter and breathe relief.
A gentleman approaches my seat upon finding out that the pie was my fault, and proceeds to rave about it and ask questions about the crust and the pink Himalayan sea salt. I am amused and flattered and grateful; this was my first pie to make, ever. His wife joins him and we talk about the complexity of the flavors of coffees and about magnesium. Mr. Dillingham (that's his name, I learn) steps away and returns with yet another slice of pie, saying he wants his son (who is an avid pie-maker, as it turns out) to try it. I realize that he's talking about Kyle Dillingham and am flabbergasted. I've loved Kyle's fiddle-stylings since I first heard him at Shannon's wedding in 2008. HE LIKES PIE, TOO. This is exciting. [I later learned that the slice was unable to make it to Kyle, but there is time and second chances for that.]
Oddly and magically, Shannon and I get a private moment or seven to talk about real things. Topics that permeate the conversation include:
- church
- awe
- worship
- gratefulness
- pressure
- the truth
- relief
- awakening
- focus
- repetition
- ritual
- passion
- when we were on fire
- why fire is still reachable
Time feels like it stops for us there (I know it's still moving because there are people graciously waiting for me during this wide-eyed and tear-studded encounter). I am crying and listening and processing and being filled with epiphany about trying to fix things and why that hasn't worked. This powwow is a healing balm. I force my heart to open and receive it.
Divinely-set, this reunion was. I believe it, and I accept it. Coincidence is a convenient and lazy credit, so I set my heart against it here. Shannon and I are keeping in closer touch.
 |
| A summation of my new spiritual mantra, via Brunch with Darling. |
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