Last Thursday, a few days before the equinox, I stepped outside after an evening yoga class and looked eastward toward the late twilight sky. The amber moon was stunning, immense. It hung low and heavy, like ripe fruit.

So mesmerizing was this moon, I couldn’t turn away. I wanted to feel closer. And to me, closer to the moon means closer to the water. Lucky to live near the Lake Michigan shoreline, I headed toward the beach.

As I stood and watched, the waves roared and sparkled in silver and black then broke languidly into the sand. I just needed time to feel the night breeze, to gaze at the placid moon while it seemed to gaze back at me.

How many other beings, I wondered, are spending a few quiet moments with the moon, elsewhere in the world, as I am now?

It’s hard to resist the pull of the full Harvest Moon, bringing with it a procession of moonlit nights. On this night, I finally turned away and headed home, feeling oddly and greatly at peace.

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