Moon Water

I think back to the five New Year’s Resolutions I had on 1 January 2020: “Lose 40 lbs.! Travel a lot! Start dating again! Stop drinking! Get Susanne to teach me about witchcraft!" Ha! How attainable those goals had all seemed at that moment, and how simultaneously silly and sad they seem at this one, on the evening of 29 December, annus horribilis finally drawing to its end.

One of the goals, at least, has been accomplished – and ironically, it’s the one that I’d thought would be the most difficult. When I was sick back in March, the 40 lbs. dropped off easily. Was it covid? I only wish I knew, but testing wasn’t available yet unless you were critically ill. I was simply instructed to isolate at home until I was feeling better, or to call for an ambulance if I couldn’t breathe. By the time testing was easily available, six weeks later, I was finally better – and 43 pounds lighter.

At the same time I was sick, so was Susanne. Hers was definitely covid, and she did call an ambulance, and then she went to the hospital, and then she died. It seems easiest just to get that out there, to say it plainly right up front. She was alive one day, and then the next day she wasn’t. As far as covid deaths go, it was mercifully fast.

As much as I wanted to go be with Susanne as she lay dying two states away, I was still so sick, and the hospital didn’t allow visitors anyway. And even if they had, Susanne would never have wanted to me to risk exposure by being close to her. She told me as much on the phone, between coughing fits, in the days before she passed. She died alone. There wasn’t a funeral.

The days crawled by, sunrises, sunsets, a succession of sameness, the sadness never seeming to fully lift, even as the days and nights grew warmer. After Susanne had been gone for a few months and it was summer, I thought about my 2020 goals again, and planned a road trip in the RV I’d refurbished a few years back. But at the last moment, I’d chickened out, imagining what might happen if I broke down in some strange town. I’d been completely isolated, working from home, so careful about human contact. Even a solo road trip had seemed like too much of a risk to take. Plus, the RV was filled with memories I wasn’t sure I wanted to confront. I feared that if I even opened the cabin door, the ghosts of summer souvenirs would all spill out onto the ground and seep into the earth forever.

Two summers ago, I’d driven the RV 500 miles to where Susanne lived, picked her up, and spent a blissful week with her by the river, hiking through saguaro stands in the sun and nightswimming under the stars. The only other living soul we saw for a week was my old hound dog Huckleberry, my constant companion. We’d ridden our bikes to explore an old ghost town, Susanne taking rubbings of the gravestones in a falling-down cemetery, and me crafting plein air paintings of crumbling rock walls, as Huckleberry lolloped around us in circles, tail wagging. We’d gathered little shells near the river’s shoreline, smoothed and worn from years of gentle water lapping, and we’d picked wildflowers in the meadow by our campsite.

I first learned about Susanne’s witchiness on the last night of the trip. We’d just finished a bottle of wine, sitting next to the campfire, the big sky full of winking stars. That was when Susanne told me about the moon.

“Did you know,” whispered Susanne, “that the moon has magical powers?” We were both half-drunk and giddy from the day’s adventures, and I wondered if she was just making a joke. Susanne’s day job was writing computer code, and she was always fastidiously practical, so this mention of moon magic seemed entirely out of character. Yet even though the Arizona night was still sticky-hot, I felt a chill. Hadn't there always been something just under Susanne's surface, something I couldn't quite put my finger on?

“Did you know that when the moon is full, epileptic people often have an increase in seizure activity? Something about the gravitational pull is so strong that it affects their bodies. Which isn’t surprising, considering that the moon makes the ocean tides. And our bodies are full of water, and they are so much smaller, so much weaker than the ocean…”

Somewhere in the distance, the laughter of coyotes echoed through canyon walls. Huckleberry pricked his ears, a soft low growl filling his throat.

"But the moon has other magic too," Susanne paused. "Things that science can’t explain. Things that I've learned about. How to direct that magic."

Now I was intrigued. But Susanne wasn’t going to tell me much more that night. It would come later, in little bits and pieces, always unexpectedly.

“It’s a shame, Viv, that the moon isn’t full this week.” Susanne lifted her eyes toward the narrow crescent in the sky. “If there was a full moon, I could teach you how to make Moon Water.” She drew deeply from her cigarette. “If you want to learn about my craft, Moon spells are a good place to start.”

Susanne's spells were something, she told me, that she kept behind a door near her heart that only creaked open for brief moments, and rarely at that. "It's a long life, Viv," Susanne had told me more than once. "When the time is right, you'll learn more. Everything will come to light exactly when it's supposed to."

So every time the moon has been full in 2020, I’ve thought of Susanne, and the things she didn’t ever get to teach me. How foolish it seems now to think I'd always believed there would be time, so much more time. And how ironic that time - time alone in isolation, killing time, dead same repetitive time - is all I have now, all that stretches into the entire horizon, except that now it's all time without Susanne, without knowing more of her secrets.

As for my other 2020 goals, I haven’t done so well with those either. I’ve tried online dating a bit – and there’s a man named Jamie who seems sort of interesting - but the fact that we won’t be able to safely meet in person for months has dampened my enthusiasm. Still though, we chat online every night. He is braver about exploring during the pandemic than I am, traveling out into the mountains and taking photographs, craggy rock formations spread across remote and desolate landscapes, and occasionally, the abandoned human detritus between them. Our conversation flows more smoothly after dark, since every night around 5, I uncork a bottle of wine and start drinking, another failed resolution.

Tonight, 29 December, is the last full moon of the year. I’m chatting online with Jamie, halfway through a nice bottle of Malbec, and we’re exchanging links to songs on YouTube. This definitely isn’t what I’d consider “dating” – at least not in the sense that I imagined it when I was making resolutions for 2020 – but it passes the time, and I can at least convince myself that I’ve tried. And of course, even being as limited as it is, “dating” certainly seems more feasible than learning more about witchcraft from Susanne.

I notice that it’s 11:30 and wonder, as I often have lately, why I bother to have a bedtime these days. The days are all the same and there isn’t a real reason to go to sleep at a certain time, wake at a certain time, no real reason to eat breakfast at 7, lunch at 12, or dinner at 6. But my old habits are strong, and my eyelids are starting to feel heavy under the warm Malbec-buzz. I say goodnight to Jamie and figure I’ll check my email before turning out the lights.

As I scroll though my inbox, I’m instantly jolted awake and sober. There’s a message from Susanne:

Sent: 12.29.20 11:29pm

Subject: Moon Water

My Dearest Vivian,

If you’re reading this, I’ve already transitioned to another plane. Don’t be alarmed – my craft isn’t strong enough for me to be sending you this right now in real time, from beyond the grave! I wrote a simple script from my hospital bed when I realized I wasn’t getting better, a program to send this email at just the right time, so that on the last full moon of 2020, I could finally teach you how to make Moon Water.

You need to do this quickly. Since I know you always check your email just before bed, you should have just the right amount of time to do what you need before midnight. I didn’t want to give you time to overthink it. Your instincts will guide you. All I need to tell you is this: fill a glass jar with water from your tap. Then, seek out 5 items to add to the water. Your spirit will tell you what to add.

Once you’ve added what you need to the jar, bring it outside and place it on the ground, under the moonlight, at exactly midnight. Light a candle and say this blessing over the jar. First, tell the moon what you want to let go and leave behind in 2020. Then, tell the moon what you want to invite in for 2021. After the sunrise tomorrow, bring the jar back inside.

You’ll get another message from me before the end of the year.

I love you, my friend.

-Susanne

My heart is racing; it’s 11:35, only 25 minutes until midnight. I grab an old glass mason jar from the kitchen shelf and fill it with water. As if guided by something locked in my pounding chest, I know exactly what I need to find.

I rush to my guest room – now filled with boxes of Amazon deliveries waiting to be unpacked – and reach for the little basket on the nightstand next to the bed where Susanne used to sleep when she visited. From the basket, I take a smooth little pale white shell, a shell Susanne and I found by the riverside, and drop it into the jar with a soft little plunk.

Next, to the studio, where I dig through boxes of paint tubes, and brushes, and beads, until I find it: a soft pink translucent quartz heart stone. I’d bought it last year, wanting to design a charm for Susanne for her birthday, the birthday that came after she was gone. Thump! It rests at the bottom of the jar against the shell.

I take my flashlight and head outside to the RV, hoping I can find the next item I’m seeking, and quickly. The moonlight through the long sidewall windows casts a shimmery glow on the walls, the little table, the painted cabinets, tacked with postcards from little towns all across the southwest. Opening and closing drawers of plastic cutlery, unfinished puzzles, a travel Scrabble set. AH! There it is, the little muslin drawstring sachet with the dried wildflower petals from the meadow near our summer riverside campsite. The petals float in the water.

The next item is easier to find, but harder to face. The box has sat on my bedroom dresser since last year, since Huckleberry died, and I haven’t ever opened it. I draw a deep breath, inhale, exhale, and lift the cover. I untie the twine around the plastic bag inside, and take a pinch of dust between my fingers. Huckleberry’s ashes. Black and white, the ash swirls in the water before sinking to the bottom.

Finally, the last addition to the jar. Something from me, something alive. Back in the studio, I grab my sewing kit, find a stick pin, and sterilize it with a match. I prick my finger until a deep red drop of blood appears; it colors the water with a tiny pink tinge for only an instant.

Two minutes before midnight, and the water is ready. I walk outside and the moon hangs twinkly in the clear night sky. The air is cold, sharp, and I set the jar down onto the dirt, old earth that has been here for millennia, long before this terrible year. I pull the votive from my pocket, deep breath in through the mouth, deep breath out through the nose, strike a match. The candle wick wavers lowly in the light wind but does not go out.

Hello, moon, I whisper. I’m not sure if I’m doing this right, but here goes.

I want to let go of my fear, and I want to let go of not being able to reach all my goals for 2020. I want to let go of my grief, and transform it into something that helps me to grow.

The wind picks up again, and the votive flickers, and then the air is once again still, candle still burning. I breathe in, breathe out, and continue:

In 2021, I want this pandemic to end. I don’t want any more deaths. I want to travel, and I want to feel free again. But most of all, someday when my time here is over, I want to see Susanne, and I want to see Huckleberry, and everyone else who has gone before. But please, let me have 2021 before that happens. Thank you, moon.

I’m still not sure what I’m expecting to feel, but nothing happens. The wind still comes and goes, the moon is still hanging huge, the air is still cold. I blow out the candle and walk slowly back into the warmth of the house.

The next few days crawl past, same as all the other isolation days: breakfast at 7, lunch at 12, wine at 5, dinner at 6. Painting, chatting with Jamie, washing endless dishes – were there ever so many dishes as in 2020? – and reading the news stories, more loss, a new covid strain, the hope of a vaccine. And before I know it, it’s New Year’s Eve. I think back to a year ago, before the world went crazy – Anderson Cooper on the TV, slightly buzzed, waiting for the ball to drop, laughing about Cheri Oteri’s impression of Barbara Walters saying, “This is 2020.”

The moon water is still sitting on the counter, and I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. I refresh my email again and again, waiting for the message that Susanne has promised to send before the year ends.

At 11:29, the email comes:

My Dearest Vivian,

Happy almost-2021! I bet you are waiting for some instructions, and I hope you’re not disappointed to learn that your intuition will guide you again in how to use your Moon Water. The knowledge and the path is inside of you, close to your heart. Just before midnight, just before 2021 begins, do what you will do with it, and think of me.

I know that you miss me; know that I miss you too, my friend.

-Susanne

But I don’t know! I don’t have any idea what to do with the Moon Water. Breathe in, breathe out. Heart thumping. I take the jar and walk out into the darkness, under the now-waning moon. Even though the air is cold, I am hot, seething, burning inside. Susanne should be here to guide me.

WHAT THE HELL DO I DO WITH THIS, MOON?! I am screaming aloud, raging, angry at all that has been taken, all that has been lost.  

And then, slowly, I feel the heat turn to warmth, a simple calm. I hear the howl of coyotes echoing in the nearby canyon, and suddenly, I know what I need to do.

I lift the Mason jar to my lips, and take a gulp of the Moon Water. I feel a cool tickle spread through my chest, I feel something unlock inside, and I raise my face toward the sky and laugh with the moon. I pour some of the water over my head and shiver, shaking my hair like a dog would shake, watching the droplets scatter in the moonlight. I carry the jar over to the RV, pour water onto my hands, and splash it onto the steering wheel, onto the driver's seat, and it mingles with my tears that are now falling. I stand on the earth where the jar sat overnight in the full moon, and I spin, holding the jar with my arm outstretched as the last of the water flies from the depths and sprinkles across the ancient dirt, shell and petals and ashes and blood and all. The quartz heart flies through the air and lands somewhere indeterminate.

FUCK YOU, 2020! I scream to the moon. And then, silence. I can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke, mixed with the unmistakable essence of campfire embers. The coyotes’ cries echo again through the canyon walls, and this time they are joined by the familiar bay of a hound. And then, silence. The air is once again fresh, clean, the smell of rain.

2021 has arrived. The infinite moon winks to greet it.