 |
|
|
|
|
A marvelous night for a moondance
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
Once in a blue moon, the world turns mystical. The planets align themselves just so and you are transformed. When that moment happens and you can take advantage of it, well, that's just icing on the cake.
I've been exercising a lot this year, and have taken to evening walks around 8 p.m., that wonderful time when the lights are still on in the houses, glowing brightly as I move down the deserted streets, the occasional auto my only companion, the deep fall evenings crisp and clear, the soft air a pleasure to inhale.
Walking is such a solitary affair, enveloping me in a cloak of self-absorption that starts to block out all the frazzle and noise. Headphones, full of jazz and spitfire, make an excellent companion out there on the empty sidewalks as I peek into the illuminated lives through open curtains and stained-glass shields, seeing bits of pampered perfection, overjoyed havoc, simple comforts or stark elegance.
On those full-moon nights, the streets are lit to a perfection unseen by Hollywood set designers, the shadows almost too exact to be real, the glow off the sidewalks sharp enough to read by. The autumn full moons in Willow Glen look possibly the most magnificent from the corner of Clintonia and Palm Haven, looking eastward as that full dead asteroid rises and bathes the streets in a shimmer.
I was standing there one night before All Hallows, headphones on, all alone in the world as I watched that moon glowing through the palm trees. There are two varieties of palm in the Palm Haven neighborhood; the tall, slim, straight ones that sway magically even when you would swear there was no breeze, reaching so high up in the sky that most of us never even notice their small, beautifully formed heads spurting out in all directions. Those are the ones that line the sidewalks, making galleries of the skies, visible from miles around. They mark the neighborhood from two different freeways, rows of soldiers marching nowhere.
The second kind, the shorter and broader but no less impressive "pineapple" variety, are planted in the wide lane dividers of this housing tract, their lush full heads reaching barely half as tall as the others'. The streets, even on the worst days, remind one of some Florida vacation postcard.
On their best days, as the heat rushes up from the shimmering sidewalks, they silently scream at you to slow down, relax, and have an iced tea.
Van Morrison sings into my ears, the jazz slyly slipping into my muscles, making my feet twitch and my bones jump with each footstep when I get to that magical intersection. There's no one out on the streets, not even the occasional stray dog making his rounds of the redwood trees behind me as I catch Selene (the Greek goddess of the moon) glowing, and I find myself shedding self-consciousness as the music works into me with the crisp night air and I watch the beautiful sky through those wonderful tall palms.
I'm dancing on the grass. Swaying with the music, pirouetting in the darkness with no one to see, I'm Fred Astaire alone with the music and the night air, every step perfection; Ginger Rogers leaping from the curb to the street as my hair flies behind me and an invigorating joy moves me from somewhere in that wild open sky.
It's a marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes, a fantabulous night to make romance 'neath the cover of October skies, Van Morrison croons into my ears. I've shut my eyes and find the grass under my feet. A will-o'-the-wisp is my vision, light and free, my tennis shoes transformed into those high classy heels Cyd Charisse used to wear while she spun and twirled, the moon my spotlight, the palms my audience out there as my spirits take flight in the open park. On a crisp autumn evening another humble mortal is suddenly struck by the beauty of life and dances, openly and unashamed.
|
|
|
|
Willow Glen, California Since 1992
