Last Monday was a full moon. Furthermore, it was a special full moon because the moon was especially close to the Earth. Because we love giving everything spectacular names, folks were calling it a "supermoon."
As I do on all full and new moons, I conducted a private religious ceremony in my house at the hearth and in my back garden near the creek. In my personal religion, this roughly biweekly ritual is somewhat akin to going to church. On these days, my home becomes a temple to all the things I hold sacred.
As has been the case every day since November 8, the results of the presidential election had been weighing heavily on me. As a result, it was a major focus of my ritual. I begged and pleaded for the protection of the LGBTQ people I work with in my volunteer work. I focused all of my will on making sure I had the strength to work to make things better rather than just wishing things would be better. As I was working, I had the realization that my prayer was the same as countless mothers since the dawn of time: Protect my children and give me strength to protect my children. As I began to cry, a soft rain began to cry with me. I knew in that moment that Nature doesn't single out some of her children for protection, that humans created this mess and we should be the ones to fix it, and that there are no guarantees in life. But I also knew that mothers weeping at night in fear for their children never cry alone.
About two weeks ago, at Samhain, I took an oath to be a light in the darkness. The darkness is circling around us now. Hate crimes are on the rise because racists and bigots feel emboldened. We've never needed moonlight more.
I choose to be a light in the darkness, and I will leave moonlight in my footsteps to light a path through the dark.