Like the moon lost behind the clouds

MOONI had abandoned my art classes mid-way – they were not really my thing. But, as I observed to my husband, I learned something from them.

I have a tendency to focus on obsessing over getting the nuances in the background right first, instead of drawing the big picture. When looking at the big, curvy steel jug with some fresh twigs and leaves, and a steel plate, artistically arranged on a table with a dupatta, the Indian equivalent of a scarf, forming the background, I look at the the folds of the dupatta, trying to capture them perfectly.

I told as much to my husband as we had a leisurely breakfast on a weekend morning.

And I mean this more broadly – not just in art class, I said.

You always do mean things more broadly, no? He said.

And with that he went over to the couch to pick one of our big cushions.

This – is not a cushion. This is squishy – like feeeeeeelings.

I laughed and laughed – he is right –   the world around is imbued with meaning waiting to be discovered.

I sit with my soul sister one night. We are a little drunk after a get together; a little pained after the tough year both of us have had. It’s night and we’re sitting outside  – we can see the full moon in the night sky. We watch. It is a thing of beauty. I see grey clouds, a swarm of them, floating toward the moon.

Look, I say – they’ll hide the moon – but then they’ll pass.

We watch the clouds move menacingly toward the moon, and soon, the bright light of the moon is hidden, obscured by the dense gray mass of the clouds. We wait. In some time, the clouds float away, and the moon is free to shine once more.

I tell my husband this story the next day – of how the moon was lost and found.

It’s not the moon, he says. It’s you. He knows me. It is me – and I am on my way to being found.

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