Thanksgiving Full Moon

by
Liz Hannon

     I walk home through the downtown of the middle-sized California town I now call home thinking I want to buy a tent in spring, take myself camping. On the block where I live, which runs like an athlete to touch far hills, the clean November night sky hands me a full moon, a diamond, a snow pie, a sheer and ghostly gift which I believe is being delivered just to me at this moment. In the next blink I will hand it back to share with the rest of the world, but in the now of myself, this street, and the full moon, I feel both peace and excitement. In spring, I think, the moon will see my new tent. I will have put together days, weeks, and months of a life, a string of odd-shaped beads which will hang about me, pulling my skin down. Will this moon, this perfect moon, this nightlight, this celestial torch, be okay with canned salmon for dinner?
     I am hungry even if you are not, Moon, and am thinking you might like to come in and join me, put away the list of all the calls you must return tonight to lovers, to those sipping on lonely teacups, for those in graveyards reading the names of fathers by the flashlight you shine. You could sit on the porch. It won't take long to arrange a nice plate, open the Chilean red, and join you there on my small overhang with its cheery red chairs and bold yellow flowers. You know this is where I live right? I always come out to find you as you gather strength, first the pie slice, then half a heart, and finally the white crystal of tonight. I have written two poems and one song about you. I could recite them now if you wish, but what I'm really hoping is to knit you a new dress, tell you a story no one has heard or dreamed would walk upon the page. Would that please you, Moon?
     Or is it enough to feel as I did as you bounced into view--peace and excitement, to be both the cocoon and the butterfly within, to have that be how this split-second feels as I head home on a Monday, thinking of dinner, the lone space I inhabit, and all the graceful shoves you gave me to get me here. Sit now. I want to put some black olives and pepper cheese on a dish for you, fill the wine glasses and rock back on my heels carefully. I would not want to spill a drop of this night.

by
Liz Hannon

     I could not know at eight or twelve what I know now as I march the final mile to forty-three--how we need fire to begin again--how ash and sulfur signify both magic and destruction. I sit this morning with a fuzzy gray sky warming its hands against oak trees staring straight at me through the bedroom window. To the right of my journal, a flame holds vigilantly in a half shell of wax, promising warmth and light when all I can think of is the searing nature of fire. And from the smoke of memory comes the starched voice of Sister Mary Theophane, calm despite circumstances, calm against the calamitous clang of the fire bell, calmly telling the first through eighth grade students holding down the blacktop outside St. Joseph's Grade school, "Children, children, turn and face the burning building."
     "Turn and face the burning building." At forty-three I stand alone and turn obediently to look back on my life as flames bring down the final timbers of forty-two, another year run to the ground, reduced to ashes. It is the year I walked into the burned-out heart of a redwood, marveling at its resilience, placing my palm against the wounded bark, wondering how the wood held the pain so stoically through the years, never mentioning the incident, its fear, the traumatic days immediately following the blaze. At forty-three I marvel that my skin is not the fake pink of grafted flesh, rough pigskin, for surely I have been consumed by heat. I remember the story of Moses and the burning bush, God appearing through fire to underscore exactly what was at stake. Moses' decision to welcome the fiery truth of his mission--the burning question put by God, "Will you not give breath to your beliefs so they catch fire and lead you onward with fervor?"
     I am back in the redwood, back with that burn victim, back with myself on the asphalt outside the school, back in the ambulance with my mother, whose internal temperature has climbed to over one hundred and five degrees, who twitches and shakes like the single flame at the head of a match. I am back at my desk sniffing for smoke as I walk through the ashes of forty-two, as I turn and face the burning building. I have gone down in flames, and now I rise. I have melted into nothing and the nerve endings that survived slowly, painfully reknitted my hide, fused bone-to-bone, lovingly placed my scarred heart back in my chest, and painted my skin a toasty olive. I have survived the loss of illusion and my authentic self now stands, albeit weak-kneed. I walk. I sing. I write.
     I pause, remembering who walked with me into the forest of forty-two, who also went down in flames, did not have the energy to break open the seed pod of true self and work back up to the sky, refilling lungs with air, using each breath to crawl further from the hot spot. Not all trees regenerate. Not all can draw a wooden ring around their hearts to mark the end of another year as I do now. Some died in the earthquakes. Some were shot down as their neighbors held guns to their face. Some simply let go of my hand as I tried to lead them back to the meadow.
     At forty-three my job is to come back to this treed area and remember all who died, all who could not survive the burning heat of life. I will come back to find the shell of my old self resting there on a nettle carpet, a mysterious carapace that will disintegrate with time, and with it my regrets. At forty-three I am such a seedling, so supple and vulnerable. How green I am, how thoroughly green and ready! I accept my mission on earth now that God has come to me, like Moses, and I, too, said, "Yes."
     Each morning I renew that vow with a prayer. "I am Liz Hannon, a ray of the Great Spirit. I am on this earth to be of service through my actions, my words, and my prayers to honor each person's heart and soul. And to raise the sword that slays the dragons of fear, abuse and sorrow. I am here, at God's request, to instill a sense of wonder--and to keep enchantment alive on this earth."
     Yes, God. I will live as an artist, a fire swallower, a magician, and a disciple. I am not too hot, I am just right. I am a votive candle. I am devout. I have turned and faced the burning building. I accept what has perished, and I turn now to take the hand offered by forty-three. I will walk out to the green pasture with my eye on the small hopeful points of evergreens there on the horizon. Please, come my friend-- join me.

Liz Hannon is a former broadcast journalist and Midwesterner who moved to California to pursue her writing. Her work appears in the inaugural edition of West Word  from the Literary Arts Council of the Sebastapol Center for the Arts, and will be included this fall in Dark Hollow.