On the Nights I Cannot Find Her

Notes from the Hollow Bone | entry forty-seven

Last night while standing beneath the dark, I could not find mother moon.

Only sister stars scattered softly across the sky.

And still, before going inside, I found myself whispering aloud:

I will come again tomorrow.
And if not tomorrow I will come again.
And the next night I will come again.

I repeated it several times without fully understanding why.

At first I thought I was speaking to the moon.

But the longer I sat with it, the more I realized I was speaking to every beautiful thing I have ever feared losing.

Joy.
Peace.
Wonder.
Myself.

Because there were many years of my life where absence felt permanent.

If love disappeared, I assumed it was gone.
If happiness faded, I assumed I had imagined it.
If connection dimmed, I immediately began grieving it before allowing it time to return.

But life has been teaching me something softer lately.

Not all disappearances are abandonments.

Some things still exist beautifully beyond our line of sight.

The moon does not cease being whole simply because clouds conceal her for a night.

And perhaps healing is learning not to panic in temporary darkness.

Perhaps healing is trust.

Trust that what nourishes you will find you again.
Trust that beauty still exists on the other side of uncertainty.
Trust that you can return to yourself after seasons spent feeling disconnected from your own spirit.

There is something sacred about returning.

About looking again.
About refusing to let disappointment harden you into detachment.

Because cynicism may protect the heart from longing—
but it also protects it from wonder.

And I do not want to live untouched by wonder.

So on the nights I cannot find her, I will come again tomorrow.

And if not tomorrow, I will come again.

With Grace & Ink,
— Mai