Sisters
vo·cal /ˈvōk(ə)l / adjective
When she is six and I am four, we march up and down the sidewalk in front of our house, while next door a man sprays the grass chemical-green with a long hose. We hold hand-painted signs, and she—the sun—blazes us forward, her curls fiery, fierce gold. Meanwhile, I—the moon—find my half-shadowed crescent both refracting and reflecting her, so her light first expands and then shifts within me, translating into my own muted light. In this way, we—become defenders of the rounded earth—chorus a symphony, our ions quivering tandem indignation. Now know this: the sound the moon and the sun make together when they are young and they are singing vibrates at a frequency above hearing, and the way the sun’s light both glances off and is absorbed by the moon makes the two indistinguishable against their surroundings—confuses rods and cones, and all things retinal. This, perhaps, explains him: finishes the lawn, turns the key to ignition, drives away.
so·mat·ic / səˈmadik / adjective
We are here to meditate, and the guru on the bamboo mat at the altar prescribes we hold space. One might suppose the moon best knows stillness—for does not its silvery glow beam down in the quiet hours, when much of the world is sleeping? Is it not calm in its subtle waxing and waning, a fixed mark in the night sky? Here I must tell you no, it is not so. The moon pulses with energy—a constant tension. The electric fizzle of its gravitational neighbor dominates. (In this we have, perhaps, also overlooked the nocturnal; not all find rest in the dark hours.) Now, the guru: Let go of your thoughts, and be present in your body. And yet the moon cannot feel her own shape; she can only hear the cacophony: fzzzzz, fzzzzz, fzzzzz. Meanwhile, the sun sits self-possessed, her body fusing pressure into light.
ma·te·ri·al / məˈtirēəl / adjective
Before the sun or the moon, there was the darkness. Know that the darkness was not a void. It was substantive, full, promising, strong: the mother of the light. First came the sun. Her birthing was not easy—the push of her body required determined effort, force. And on her appearance from the darkness they were at once blinded by her brilliant, glorious blaze. For, if they had been clear of sight, perhaps they would have noticed—as they cupped her head with the metal forceps, the pressure tore her soft skin open in a tiny gash. The sun: now blemished just above her eye. Then, later, came the moon. She waited comfortably in the darkness, for not only was she one for contemplation, she knew it was a safe place. She heard the echoing whispers of the sun that came before her, sensed the outlined shape around her, shimmers of the space that had once held the sun’s energetic light. Meanwhile, the darkness buzzed with anticipation, stretched to fullness by the moon. And yet, the moon waited longer: she liked the quiet of the darkness, and she liked the echoed lullabies of the sun. So the darkness called upon the sun, coaxed her to assist. Gently, the sun urged the moon--come out into the warmth of my bright light. The moon blinked and quivered as she rose up into the great expanse of her own being. And the sun was there waiting: an ally, a constant, a strong, clear voice. The moon knew it was good. And it was so.
vo·cal /ˈvōk(ə)l / adjective
- relating to the human voice.
- expressing opinions or feelings freely or loudly.
- (of music) consisting of or incorporating singing.
When she is six and I am four, we march up and down the sidewalk in front of our house, while next door a man sprays the grass chemical-green with a long hose. We hold hand-painted signs, and she—the sun—blazes us forward, her curls fiery, fierce gold. Meanwhile, I—the moon—find my half-shadowed crescent both refracting and reflecting her, so her light first expands and then shifts within me, translating into my own muted light. In this way, we—become defenders of the rounded earth—chorus a symphony, our ions quivering tandem indignation. Now know this: the sound the moon and the sun make together when they are young and they are singing vibrates at a frequency above hearing, and the way the sun’s light both glances off and is absorbed by the moon makes the two indistinguishable against their surroundings—confuses rods and cones, and all things retinal. This, perhaps, explains him: finishes the lawn, turns the key to ignition, drives away.
so·mat·ic / səˈmadik / adjective
- of or relating to the wall of the body, especially as distinct from the mind.
We are here to meditate, and the guru on the bamboo mat at the altar prescribes we hold space. One might suppose the moon best knows stillness—for does not its silvery glow beam down in the quiet hours, when much of the world is sleeping? Is it not calm in its subtle waxing and waning, a fixed mark in the night sky? Here I must tell you no, it is not so. The moon pulses with energy—a constant tension. The electric fizzle of its gravitational neighbor dominates. (In this we have, perhaps, also overlooked the nocturnal; not all find rest in the dark hours.) Now, the guru: Let go of your thoughts, and be present in your body. And yet the moon cannot feel her own shape; she can only hear the cacophony: fzzzzz, fzzzzz, fzzzzz. Meanwhile, the sun sits self-possessed, her body fusing pressure into light.
ma·te·ri·al / məˈtirēəl / adjective
- relating to, derived from, or consisting of matter; physical or bodily
- of or relating to the subject matter of reasoning; empirical
- having real importance or great consequences
- being of a physical or worldly nature
- relating to or concerned with physical rather than spiritual or intellectual things
Before the sun or the moon, there was the darkness. Know that the darkness was not a void. It was substantive, full, promising, strong: the mother of the light. First came the sun. Her birthing was not easy—the push of her body required determined effort, force. And on her appearance from the darkness they were at once blinded by her brilliant, glorious blaze. For, if they had been clear of sight, perhaps they would have noticed—as they cupped her head with the metal forceps, the pressure tore her soft skin open in a tiny gash. The sun: now blemished just above her eye. Then, later, came the moon. She waited comfortably in the darkness, for not only was she one for contemplation, she knew it was a safe place. She heard the echoing whispers of the sun that came before her, sensed the outlined shape around her, shimmers of the space that had once held the sun’s energetic light. Meanwhile, the darkness buzzed with anticipation, stretched to fullness by the moon. And yet, the moon waited longer: she liked the quiet of the darkness, and she liked the echoed lullabies of the sun. So the darkness called upon the sun, coaxed her to assist. Gently, the sun urged the moon--come out into the warmth of my bright light. The moon blinked and quivered as she rose up into the great expanse of her own being. And the sun was there waiting: an ally, a constant, a strong, clear voice. The moon knew it was good. And it was so.