You Are Still Whole

My first writing teacher, Sister Karol Jackowski, brought so much light and illumination to my life. She encouraged exploration, vulnerability, and cultivating fun. And from her teachings, I fell back in love with the craft of writing and the reflection that it brought to my life. In her book, 10 Fun Things to Do Before You Die, she writes

“At the time I vaguely knew that when anything stirs us that deeply, moves us to the point of distraction, and urgently invites us to follow, we must pack up, go, and be not afraid. Never fear the less-traveled road. Respect such mysterious calls always and take them seriously. Never ever minimize or regard them as foolishness.” -Sister Karol Jackowski

I reread this book once a year, and gosh, does that passage still hit home. I’m moving into this new phase of life, one that has been calling and that I have often minimized as foolish. I recall how I use the moon to remind me of how phases work.

Back in 2019, while working as a full-time psychologist and part-time as a writing student, the only time that I had to think about or tap into creativity was while I was mowing.

Yep, mowing.

I belong to two acres of land surrounded by flat farmlands. And I buzz all over the place on my red, riding lawnmower. While on that mower, my mind is as free and open as the expansive sky in these fields.

During mowing season, I was in Sister Karol's Nature Writing course. And I fell head over heels for reading and writing about nature.

While reading so many essays and stories written about nature, I started thinking about mowing differently. And I found myself deeper and deeper in connection with the earth. I started to feel guilty for destroying the invisible ecosystem that lives between the grass and the topsoil.

I found myself wondering—what creatures and beings inhabit that space? I know the moles are below the surface because they leave the ground uneven and bumpy in places. I love knowing there is an entire world beneath the soil that we cannot see. But they were safe from the blades.

If anyone were watching me mow, they would see me riding along at a steady, but zippy pace, but sometimes the whole cadence would stop so abruptly that I might fall right off the front of the mower and onto my face.

What they wouldn’t see is that there was a bee or a toad or a moth or a grasshopper in the path of the blades. After the grass is shorn, I survey how neat and tidy the yard looks. And then usually sit on the pavement, and say a prayer for healing all the damage that I have done.

Often times after the mow, it was pushing early evening, and the moon was rising. And that is when the reflection set it. Looking up at the moon, I can always see the world and my place in it.

We pay the most attention to the moon when it is full. Maybe it is because it is an explanation for people's bad behavior? Maybe the extra light at night draws our gazes naturally to it? Or maybe it is because we are more comfortable with thinking in wholes rather than gradients? Hell, maybe it is because we have been told the story of the Wolfman emerging under the full moon and the mayhem that ensues.

Black and white Universal Monsters aside, let’s ponder what Thich Nhat Hanh says:

“Let us not be afraid of decreasing. It is like the moon, we see the moon increasing and decreasing, but it is always the moon.”

When only paying attention to the full moon or the new moon, we can miss the phases in between. The whole being is sometimes hidden beyond the gradient of existence. But we aren’t taught to think in gradients or phases, are we?

We are taught to think in concepts like “good” and “bad.” Or “big” and “little.” Or “always” and “never.” Thinking in extremes begins to close doors to the world, or even worse, your inner voice can turn on you. An inner perfectionist develops. And I’m sure you know how harsh that inner critic can be.

It’s the “Nobody likes me” and “I’m so stupid” and those inner voices that are so dangerous because they ignore situations that prove them false.

We can take a lesson from the moon and how beautifully her phases show us the importance of balance. If like the moon, we show up and see ourselves, our world, and each other in gradients, we might find more comfort in inevitable changes and cycles.

When I was in the nature writing course, I soaked up all the essays and words that I could when it came to reflecting on the earth, all beings that inhabit it, and also the time and space that connects to this place. And in that learning, I realized that I had never felt more disconnected from the environment and myself. So disconnected that it felt unnatural.

One of the assignments for this class was simply to take a walk in nature and write about it. After my walk, this is what fell out on the page:

Long plagued by an internal dialogue, my mind and heart don’t usually get along. The heart attempts to convince a racing mind to pump the brakes. “Get out. Go for a walk. You can take a break.”

The mind shames the heart for not speaking up sooner and tries to make the case to go to work instead. “It’s still dark out. Why didn’t you do this yesterday? Wait until later today. You can do it then.”

The heart counters with, “You say that you will do it later every day, and you never do. I need some help here.”

I listened, laced up a pair of walking shoes, and opened the door to be greeted by the darkness before dawn. A rush of cool air touched my cheeks, nose, throat, and lungs. In a pacing cadence, the heart and mind bickered with their “what if this” and “what if that.”

“What if you are doing this all wrong?” the mind bleats like a lost sheep looking for its way beyond a hill that obscures its view of home. The crickets’ song quiets, and the dawn cracks in the east. The heart queries, “What if you sit down and write? Permit yourself to be a writer?”

“You decided to be a psychologist instead of a writer long ago,” harped the mind, and the chin dropped in a fixed gaze on the passing pavement.

“What if you turn outward for a moment?” begged the heart.

The soul finally stepped in. “Be quiet, you two. And look up from your damn shoes.”

The sun was rising. The half-moon perched in the deep, dark blueness of the early morning, moving with a stillness that is felt, not seen. I stand. Stare.

I remembered when I was sixteen, I would climb on the top of my first car, a gold Ford Tempo, and stare into celestial nowhere until the dew gathered on my arms and chills echoed in my bones. I would wait for shooting stars or satellites to sail through the blackness. For those magical moments, those bursts of meaning, those innocent wonderings, I was free. Free from the binds of what-ifs and whys.

As I stood remembering that freedom, the heart whispered, “What happened to you?”

I answered, out loud into the budding sunlight that rose in front of me, “I got lost.”

The dawn’s pink nose pushed its way into the hand of the night and demanded attention and breakfast. And a fresh start landed on the glistening green carpet. I tuned into the rustle of the pines and the creatures that live amongst them. I paused for a while in this place. Unmoving. Only listening to the sounds outside myself.

—

I have since taken this walk and this essay and added more, but this is where I will leave it for now.

To wrap it up for this week, I think Gloria Vanderbilt said it best:

”I love to think that animals and humans and plants and fishes and trees and stars and the moon are all connected."

As you head into the week, if the weather permits, make time for a walk with no headphones, no phone, nothing but you and what you observe around you and where you fit in it.

And if you can’t walk, I encourage you to consider if you are stirred or moved to or invited to take the less-traveled road. Reflect on our place amongst invisible ecosystems where the grasshoppers, moths, and moles live. Contemplate what phase of life you are heading into. Take notice of how often you speak to yourself in “always” and “never.” And use the moon to remind you that no matter what phase you are in or are going into, you are still whole.

In connection,

Ellie