Driving back from taking the kids to their dad’s house tonight, I see the moon, just rising. Huge. Orange. Full. It is so beautiful that I pull the car over and watch it crawl up over the only tree on the horizon.
It’s Friday night, after a long busy week. I should have a date or a plan or something to go to, but I don’t and there is nothing I would really rather be doing that watch the moon come up.
When my daughter and I were in Paris, we went to the Louvre, a place full of man-made beauty. I remember a room, bigger than my house, full of paintings of the Crucifixion. Right next door to that (or maybe further down, my memory is blurry) was a room of similar size with a similar mind-numbing number of paintings of the Nativity. Each of these paintings is a work of art. I remember being annoyed. “How can I possibly see, much less appreciate, this much in an afternoon?” I left the Louvre overwhelmed and irritable.
The moon never does that to me.