I'm looking back at today's pictures, white moon on black sky, and I want to climb into the first frame and walk and walk until I get to the next frame, then leapfrog into moonscape number two and walk and walk and walk.
Usually when there's a mesmerizing moon dangling in my eyes and I snap, the picture says nothing more than cold-stone-light bulb. This morning that all changed.
The camera was talking moon-glow and moon snow and go-moon-go. We had all the time in the world, moon and I. We weren't too hot, or too cold, but just right, me in my blue teal Gortex Christmas present jacket from my brother; moon in her plump, ivory parka. Moon posed above the governance tipi, glowing in the icy ruts along the gravel road. She allowed close ups, just her and the tipi. She travelled on, toward the All Nations Healing Hospital, but wouldn't show her face behind the flags: Treaty Four, Saskatchewan, Union Jack, Canada.
At the edge of the sacred-promise-school yard, trying to make the snow reflect the moon, I kept taking pictures, lower and lower, until I lay on my stomach, the earth soft, and I stretched into the moment of surprise rest.
And now as I sit in my bedroom, remembering the moon, listening to the wind outside the window, I can't even go to bed -- exhausted though I am from a day of student letter writing and kids pretending to throw bits of stuff at each other until I blow my cool -- because my bed ran away from home, but even as I type, here is my husband pushing a new bed up the stairs. A king-sized bed, a good trade with a friend.
Maybe tonight as I sleep I'll dream of a perfect world where promises are sacred and trades are good for both sides. Where handshakes and hugs hold us everyday. Where newcomers are welcomed as family. Where children are loved and fed and taught and freed. Where all nations may heal together under one moon.