The moon on the crest

This art, a painting by Rockwell Kent, will look familar to many of you. I used it a year ago in this post, when I was still living in the city, and thought that kind of full moon unlikely to shine on me again.

Silly little mortal!

Last week, deep in the night before my birthday, the moon on the crest of the new fallen snow/gave the lustre of midday to objects below (thank you, Clement Moore). Mrs. Peel, silhouetted by the window, and I, curled under my feather quilt, watched for a while, and breathed blue light. The moon, pregnant round, near-term with hopes and dreams, sang us to sleep. The next day it snowed like white feathers drifting.

How is it that I am back in a place where the moon shines blue, and sings in the coldest nights? And that a year ago I had no idea I would be? or could be?

Gifts beyond measure, grace upon grace, spilled out, overflowing, and every once in a while one actually recognizes them. Was blind, doubtless will be blind again, but for a moment, can see.