I knew it to be a sporadic event that could only occur in the middle of the night. Having the power to rouse me from my sleep and woo me to the window, it successfully persuaded me to leave the comfort of my bed and sneak outside. I ambled along gawking at the reflected waves of heavenly light as it pierced the night’s darkness and illuminated the landscape with a soft blue hue. Casting long dark shadows, it transformed the landscape into a monochromatic scene beyond my imagination.
If it were true that tormented spirits roam the countryside after the midnight hour, they would have wailed in vain on those nights because I was so wrapped up in my moment of bliss that I felt immune from all evil and incapable of recognizing fear. Nothing else seemed to matter.
The whoosh of my breath and thud of my footsteps would provide the only audible sound as I chased the ever lengthening shadows that spread out from the stand of cotton wood trees in the distant beyond. Locating a seat in the natural amphitheater created when a windstorm had toppled several huge trees onto each other, I closely observed the evolving woodland art show. Ghostly silhouetted shapes contrasted by negative space peeked my imagination and fueled a creative desire within. It completely absorbed me.
Those periodic nightly jaunts would remain my secret. To my knowledge, no one knew I had left the house. I made a point of returning before the sun’s rays would break the horizon and shuttle the moonlight off on its way. How would a ten year old explain his strange fascination with moonlight and shadows? The opportunity would present itself some twenty-four years in the future.
The boy grew into a man whose life had become complex. The moonlight enchantment and periodic draw to the window had lost its persuasive power. Adult life presented many responsibilities, and sleep mattered more than moon gazing. I repeatedly opted to return to my covers; save for the night I found it impossible to resist the call.
Proving to be an exceptional display of shadow and light I decided to wake my nine-year old son and introduce him to the experience. Upon opening the door to his room I discovered he had already been wooed to window. Seated at the foot of the bed with his elbows perched on the window sill, he turned to acknowledge my presence. Saying nothing, he simply pointed outside and turned back to the display. I pulled up a chair and together we shared a matchless moment in our relationship.
Early this morning I woke to discover that old familiar blue light flooding through my living room windowpane. Shadows of the window grilles morphed out across the carpet and up the opposing walls. At ten-years old I would have put on my shoes and gone outside…at sixty-years old I put on some coffee. To the steady tick-tock of our Regulator Clock, I sat quietly and remembered what it was like to be ten again.