I just finished a book about the magic and mystery of the natural world and it thrilled my soul like all good books do, especially when the story has to do with forces we humans don’t understand.
Today is Friday the 13th. And not only that, it’s a full moon—two weighted events in many people’s psyches.
The full moon’s effect has entered our lexicon: lunacy, lunatic. And Friday the 13th is considered unlucky—13 being the number outside of the whole number of 12. I’m not sure why Friday, although I do know that sailors will not start a trip on a Friday—I know we didn’t in my family.
But I don’t consider the full moon an adversary and I certainly don’t think Friday the 13th is unlucky. I’ve written about the full moon before Full Moon Dreams and you know that I pay attention to what is shown to me during this time, because instead of being half or fully buried it has now been brought up to a place where I can work with it.
As for Friday the 13th:
I was born on the 13th and I turned thirteen on Friday the 13th. And the day I turned thirteen on Friday the 13th was the full moon.
I think “unlucky” is a way to describe events that happen to us that we don’t know how to process because they are not what we think we want to have happen to us. My personal belief is that everything that happens to me is for my highest good—that the natural world, of which I am a part, has my compassionate evolution in mind, not my destruction. So with that belief firmly seated in my soul, I gratefully take what the world gives me, trying to learn what I am supposed to learn.
One last thing: my Buddhist name, given to me by my teacher, the late Peter Matthiessen, is Tsu Ki. It means, The Moon.
And I’m not just talking about the ones that get lost in the dryer.
Every morning when I get out of bed I look for the socks, the big, fuzzy, socks I’ve worn the day before, to put on again. And nine times out of ten, there is only one of them lying on the floor.
Why? Where does the other one go? Is there a sock hop each night in some dim corner of our house and only one sock makes it back before dawn, while the other, too much to drink or seduced away, is luxuriating somewhere in illicit bliss?
I pick up my slacks of the day before and shake them. Nothing. I then sift through the layers of clothes piled on the chair. The Sock is not there.
So, sighing, because the socks have defeated me again, and it being so early in the morning I don’t have the determination to persist in the searching, I open my dresser drawer and detach a sock from its mate. I try to match it to the dutiful sock—the one that made it home in time—in terms of weight and fluff, but of course it is not the same. I put the socks on, keenly aware that these two socks are not meant to be together. Aware that I have just split up a happily mated pair of socks to force one to be with this neglected, cuckolded sock. And that just doesn’t seem right somehow.
But what can you do.