I had a rare moment of “sight want” yesterday when I thought about the super blood moon eclipse thingy. I wanted to see it. I thought, “I wish I could see that!” I had a vision of going with a bunch of people to a lake or the Sound, spreading out a blanket, turning off our phones, lying on our backs, drinking mead, watching the sky. Maybe singing. Come on, you’d sing to the moon with me, wouldn’t you?

I’ve had a long love affair with the moon. I’m a garden variety Pagan type, so I’ve become fascinated with moon cycles and moon culture. I love the names for the moons of the year, each one representing a different month and season. Strawberry Moon in June, my birth month. February’s Hunger Moon, when crops are scarce and green scarcer. In December, the winter solstice brings Long Night’s Moon. Egg Moon in April, for new life.

The Emily Dickinson poem I remember most: “The moon was but a chin of gold, a night or two ago; and now she turns her perfect face upon the world below.” Because of this poem, I always picture the moon as a face, liquid lunar pools for eyes, bright beams like a smile, sometimes covered over in angry clouds.

I think about the moon a lot this time of year, too, with the changing of summer to fall. It’s the time of year I feel itchy and restless, even more than usual. Sometimes I like to blame it on the Hunter’s Moon of October, also called Blood Moon, also called Dying Moon. Life feels fleeting this time of year, and in turn, extremely precious. I want to travel, move to another city, do something big to prove that I’m living while I can. I find myself googling cities all over the world: New York, Sofia, Zanzibar, Capetown; looking at their weather patterns, their city scapes, thinking of what I would hear and how I would feel on those streets with my feet tired but rejuvenated. I pull up old language-learning files from college: German grammar, Spanish poetry, my clumsy attempts to emulate Chinese phonetics. I look at job boards in other states, wondering if someone there would hire me. I don’t apply. I reject myself before they can.

I used to wonder if I would always be restless and wish not to be, wish to be happy and grounded where I am. Now, I’m coming to accept my restlessness. It pushes me when nothing or noone else will. I will probably never satisfy it. There is too much out there to experience and understand. It will keep waxing and waning, like the moon, but like the moon, it will always be there.

I hope you saw the eclipse. And if you sang a little bit, even just in your head, you and I are kindred spirits.