Moon Rising

I was the original girl workaholic—taking a motley medley of jobs as soon as I could, in any place that would take me. I remember the stink of the mimeograph machine at a life insurance company. The presents I failed to wrap well at The Mole Hole, a Hilton Head gift shop. The catering gig and the library shelves at the University of Pennsylvania. I was working up through my sixth hour of labor, and whenever my baby slept I was back at the machine, spooling through the corporate newsletters I wrote for a freelance dime—CompNet News, one was called. A Rohm and Haas epistle called, I think, Rohm and Haas Quarterly. A bevy of pieces for the Hay Group. Exciting stuff.

I was always working.

This summer has slowed me down. The economy has left its mark on us all; certainly it has impacted the boutique marketing firm that I run. I know that I need to start worrying about this in a more active and effective way, but somehow I've loved the just-being-alive time not working like I once worked has afforded. The new friends I've made. The new dance steps I've learned. The new novel I'm writing. The long conversations with my son. And these few days in Hilton Head. I've had the moon and the sun in the palm of my hand. I've had herons not minding my portrait taking. And just a half hour ago I watched the moon slip away above the head of this straight-spined palm tree.

I watched it, and I cried for the fact that I took the time to see it.