There’s a full moon rising … let’s go dancing in the light

 By Mary Kay Roth

After a week of hallowed sunshine and days laden with that heavenly smell of deep, wet earth – there’s a full moon rising tonight, and I intend to go out and dance underneath the stars.

The calendar turns to March on Monday and there’s a different restlessness about the promise of spring this year, an edge, an ache deep in your bones.  We all crave that first crocus, thunderstorm, Zesto ice cream cone, farmer’s market.

We’re always happy about the advent of warmth, but I suspect that this year we're ready to bust wide open with t-shirts, tennis shoes and gin-and-tonics. 

After a year of sanitizer and solitariness, a year of helping sew nurse’s gowns and wearing my mask religiously, I long for birdsong, bare feet on new green grass, rolling down the car windows to scream rock ‘n roll at the top of my lungs. Blessedly it’s finally time for celebrating the gurgle of thaw, strolling through damp prairie grasses and listening to the primal call of sandhill cranes.  Time to dance under the full moon, perhaps even howl.

I believe that if you haven’t learned anything during this pandemic, you just weren’t paying attention. And one of those lessons for me has been about not wasting precious time.

Then, last week, this happened:  Arriving home one afternoon, I headed to the bathroom to change into sweats – but as I attempted to remove my turtleneck it got stuck over my head, my arms dangling up in the air.  And when I wiggled around trying to get free, I tumbled backward into the bathtub, ripping down the shower curtain, bonking my head on the shower stall and somehow landing sprawled on my back in the tub. Stunned, I assessed possible damage, figured out I was OK – more or less – then started chuckling.  Good grief, after a year of vigilant focus on escaping COVID-19 – I almost perished by turtleneck. 

That night, after sharing this saga during a Zoom call with my kids, we all weighed in on takeaways:

• My son : “Mom, you need to buy bigger turtlenecks.”
• My daughter:  “ASAP, go fill out a POA/Power of Attorney.  What if you were in a coma, stuck in the tub?” 

Valuable lessons, indeed. But sorry, kids, not the lesson I’m taking to heart. 

If COVID doesn’t get you, your bathtub will.  Life is dear. Time is to be cherished.  As the urgency of spring seeps into my soul, and my bumps and bruises heal, there is no time for procrastination.

I signed up to serve on the Salvation Army’s Emergency Disaster team. I reserved a summer cabin in Rocky Mountain National Park and reserved a time slot for giving blood.  I bought my first kayak and am currently on the hunt for a pickup truck to haul it. 

Now is the time, my friends. Time to paddle your kayak down the waters of a Nebraska river on a brisk spring morning – remember how it feels to ride a bicycle without holding onto the handlebars – skip stones and fly kites – find yourself completely lost off-trail in Wilderness Park. 

One of my very first blogs in 5 Women Mayhem was about planting pansies last March, just as the threat of a pandemic loomed large. Tomorrow I plan to buy pansies again, dip my hands into good, clean earth, keep the faith their blossoms will flourish and survive the remaining cold – keep the faith we are on the cusp of something better. 

Rest assured, I’m not tossing away my mask or throwing a huge party. But somewhere out there, a vaccination is waiting for me – waiting for all of us. 

And since we never know what’s waiting around the next turn – a global pandemic, a perilous bathtub – perhaps it’s ok to daydream again. Dream about sunsets along the Platte River, swimming with the whales, camping in the Sandhills under vivid night skies, watching the prairie chickens dance, gathering seashells on the shore, gazing up at the Northern Lights. 

Perhaps it’s time to toss out old lists of dusting and cleaning – in exchange for new lists about living.  

• Climb my first 14er.
• Wish upon the first evening star.
• Yes, have that cup of coffee – that Hershey’s kiss.  
• Plant pansies. 
• Buy bigger turtlenecks.
• Find a pickup truck.

If not now, when?  

I want to learn to dance the two-step – check out every book from the library I’ve always wanted to read – and, on a gorgeous spring evening, find a motorcycle to jump onto. I want to master the art of drinking shots (they always do it so smoothly in the movies). I want to remember to never again turn down a live concert I really want to see – never again forget to tell the people I love that I love them.   

And I want to follow Neil Young’s advice, “There’s a full moon risin’ – let’s go dancin’ in the light. We know where the music’s playin’ – let’s go out and feel the night.” 

So, this evening, I’m heading outside. Come dance with me.

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