Dark moons

And so we wait.

Perhaps it is about the beans in the cupboard that sit patiently, hoping for attention. Or no, the painting that hangs in a gallery at the Huntington, the one that is passed quickly because it lacks a famous name on its tag. Yes, it is more like that, something that is seen, yet ignored until the point where reality sets in, and anything or nothing must be done.

Things can be ignored. They can be put off, procrastinated over. The beans in the larder, the painting that has floated on a wall for 100 plus years. We crave the notion that there is that which has to be addressed within the moment, and that which can be put off until tomorrow. We will get to all that which is waiting in a static position, for the ‘now’, we will quickly react and patch it with a bandage or tourniquet to staunch the bleeding, to ‘save the life’ so to speak. But it is appropriate on the this solstice, the night of a dark moon, to not ignore that which cannot be put off, or forgotten.

Life is meant to be grabbed by the balls, and turned with a steady convincing twist until it yields the results that are desired. If a curator decides one thing, it is important to remind them that in reality something very different is expected. To be shat on is the position of those that love to twist in the wind, to be the ignored painting in the corner that silently wishes not to distract, to speak its mind and demand attention. That would be impolite, imposing.

A dark moon is still there. It is still present, holding its position, locked within an orbit, affecting the tides, the moods, the very life of all that falls under its gaze. We can not bother to look up, to see its reflections of light, but it doesn’t matter. The force it excerpts, affects all aspects over our lives. Maybe even to the point, where we lift like the seas, pulled upward, our feet just raising from the ground for a millisecond from its draw.

The draw this evening is to do everything, within my breath and power, to feel that lift. To know that something above me is pulling me upward, exerting force over my body, requiring me to feel small and alive. And when it passes, eases, that I can fall down to the earth, into the mud and grass, and know that I am not outside of everything. To understand that I am a part of everyone, all things. That I am the silent painting, but also the loud and insistent ‘Me’ that will not sit still, will not allow for some folly to dictate how I should formally behave, how I should lower my voice and consent.

In ancient cultures, fires were built on this night, Solstice. Reaching to the sky, bonfires would light the night, reminding the sun that we understood the darkness, but that we were reaching for light. Sacrifices were made, small paper or wooden caricatures, that were thrown into the fires, releasing the past, and speaking to hopes for the new year, the coming light, the warmth that graces our bodies in the late spring and summer days.

Merry Solstice to everyone. May the new year bring happiness and a voice that is more a roar, a sound that is distinctly you, is uniquely something that the moon would secretly smile in agreement with.





About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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