I Will Teach You How to Embrace the Moon

The darkness is lit up by a billion little stars. The full moon glows, smiling down on me in kindness and comfort. She is an old friend.

I dance around the fire, arms raised, hair loose, feet bare. I thank the sky and the moon and the earth for all of their gifts. I sing the names of the ones who have passed on, who have given me the wisdom of their lives and experiences and shown me how to move forward.

I am bliss.

I am ecstasy.

I am.

Solitude is mostly a lovely way to live. I have no obligations to anyone. I live by my own schedule, by my own rules. I enjoy the peace and quiet of my little cottage, surrounded by nothing but woods.

In times of desperate loneliness, I remind myself that this is the life I have chosen. This is the life I ran to. This is the life I dreamed of when everyone around me seemed bent on destroying me, body and soul.

My parents died of pneumonia when I was little and so, I was raised by my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was goodness itself. She taught me everything. How to sew. How to cook. How to heal aches and pains. What herbs to use for an upset stomach or a headache or a cold. How to bring life into the world. She laughed with her whole, round, body, slapping her knees for emphasis. When she cried, she sobbed, shaking with sadness or rage. Nothing was ever in between for her. Nothing was ever moderate. It was sometimes overwhelming to be in her presence, to be next to someone who was so full. But the outcome was that she taught me to never be small. Never be afraid to take up space. Never be shy about laughing with my mouth wide open, my head thrown back, my voice tangling itself among the stars.  

The village was suspicious of my aunt. A woman who lived alone and who seemed to have no desire for a man. A woman raising a small girl on her own. A girl who seemed wild to them, out of control. But the village needed my aunt. She was a healer. A midwife. Necessary to their way of life.

A village has no secrets. Not really. Everyone knew that when the sun went down, Ryan Nichols beat his wife, Sara; the son of Brian and Natasha Jackson liked to sleep with the sheep; Melanie Brimmer, wife of Andrew Brimmer, would count the items she stole throughout the day. In the village, you knew to simply look the other way.  

Everyone knew that the women of the village came to my aunt with their hopes and dreams and desires and secrets. They asked her for a concoction to make a man fall in love with them. To make themselves more beautiful. To help them have children. My aunt would oblige. For a price. It was how we put food on the table.

Every so often a woman would arrive in tears, pleading with my aunt to help get rid of the child inside of them. My aunt would grant their wishes. She never asked for payment for that.

One night, my aunt helped the wrong woman. Our mayor, a man of 65 years, decided that it was time to take a wife. And chose a young girl of 16 to do the job. Coral Everett. By far, one of the most beautiful girls in the village and of course her parents were happy to give her away to the most prominent man. It was clear and obvious and known to everyone, that Coral despised him. She flinched at his touch, his voice, his very presence seemed to agitate her. And one evening, several months after their wedding, Coral came knocking on our door. She begged my aunt to help her. To save her. To free her from her burden. My aunt did what was asked and several nights later, our house was surrounded by the village men. They took my aunt away and burned her at the stake with the entire village watching, accusing her of witchcraft. They made me watch too, holding my head in place, their fingers forcing my eyes open. It was a lesson to be learned, they said. A warning to be heeded.

The church took me in. They had me kneel on rocks every day to remind me of my sins. They had me read and write from the Bible. They beat me until my skin bled. They wanted to cleanse me, they said. They wanted to heal my soul. To purify it from all the indignities it had suffered at the hands of my aunt.

For years, I was a walking corpse. I ate when I was told. I slept when I was told. I walked around in a haze, not really seeing, not really hearing. Barely breathing.

I lived like that for six years until I broke free. I was 18. I was half-asleep on the cold, hard ground of the chapel when I heard a voice. I woke. I went outside. It was the in between time. Night was almost over, but the new day hadn’t yet begun. Everything was quiet. Everything was still. The voice came again, calling my name. My aunt stood at the end of the road. I remembered her loving hands, her dancing in the moonlight, her songs for the ancestors, her gentle whispers in my ears telling me that I was special. I was precious. I was something to be loved. Her vision rekindled the light inside me, and I ran. I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could. I ran deep into the wood.

When I came upon the abandoned cottage, I knew I had found my home. The sun had risen. The light shined on the doorframe. It would need work. Lots of work. But I was free.

For the first few years I would wake in the middle of the night thinking there were men banging on my door, itching to burn me at the stake. I waited for them to come for me. To find me. But they never did.

About a month ago, I saw a young woman in the woods. Her clothes were torn, her cheeks were bloody. She lay in the dirt, barely alive. I carried her back to my cottage and nursed her back to health.

Several days later, she woke up. She told me she had run away from a village. From an abusive husband. A man who seemed determined to kill her body and soul.

I held her in my arms. I whispered gently in her ear that she was special. That she was precious. That she was something to be loved.

Together now we dance around the fire with our feet bare, our hair loose, our voices tangled with the stars.

I am teaching her how to take up space, to laugh with her mouth wide open, to reach her arms toward the sky and embrace the moon.