I took a walk pre-dawn today to view the lunar eclipse. I am not an early morning person. But at 5:30, I awoke and sat up straight. The full moon was shining through our bedroom window and calling me to attention.

In our old house, I remember peering through our bedroom’s French doors at some wildflowers I had planted in the spring. Every night they seemed to straighten and raise their heads in the direction of the moon, a lithe little army bathed in silver incandescence. I used to wonder then about the effect of the moon on their lives and how much we really understood of that connection.

This morning I felt that pull of the moon on my own compass. I put on a coat and shoes, stayed in my pink plaid pajamas, and walked to the field down the street, where I would have the best view of the setting orb.

The moon hung at the edge of the sky, brilliant and huge. It had taken on a golden glow as though it were a harvest moon wandering through the wrong season. As I waited for the eclipse, I felt the ascent of the rising sun at my back and the sinking of the moon in front of me on the horizon. I felt myself and my Earth exactly in between. I breathed in the cold air and stood suspended in a polarized allegiance.

It has been one month since my dear friend and neighbor died of lung cancer. She passed away one night before the last full moon, which someone told me was the day at which the moon would be closest to the Earth for the year. I thought to myself that the moon had called her spirit from her human shell and that she had followed. She was the type of gal who would listen to the moon and what it told her.

I thought of her this morning as I waited for the eclipse, not even sure if I would catch it before the moon disappeared behind the tree line, not even sure of what I was looking for. All I knew was that the moon had called my spirit, and I had listened.

The moon sunk before I could see the main event, but that was no matter. It had been about the journey after all.