Part 1 of the “Blood Moon Light” Series
I didn’t take a picture tonight.
The blood moon was just hanging there—deep red, a little hazy at the edges, like someone smudged it on with a thumb. It looked both close and impossibly far, the kind of thing you stare at and think, Am I really seeing this?
I reached for my phone out of habit. Then stopped.
Something about it felt too real to filter. Too quiet to frame.
I was curled up in my favorite chair—the one that knows the shape of me. Wrapped in my glittery sweater, the one I probably shouldn’t love, but absolutely do. It’s ugly in a comforting way, like it’s in on the joke with me.
The sliding door was cracked just enough to let the night breathe in. Cool air brushed my skin. The fence creaked softly, leaves whispered their dry gossip, and somewhere far off, a car slid by like background music.
Wind chimes outside the door tinkled every so often, like a gentle reminder that I wasn’t alone.
I had Milk Duds in my lap, which felt weirdly perfect. I wasn’t trying to be poetic. I just… was. Still. Present. Nesting in my own quiet little world.
I felt alive. Not in the loud, adrenaline kind of way—more like I’d landed in my body for the first time all day. Rooted. Soft-edged. Human.
I wasn’t watching the night happen. I was part of it. Breathing with it. Nesting like some instinctual creature under a red sky.
The moon didn’t ask for anything. She didn’t need to be interpreted or turned into a metaphor. She just hung there, steady and silent, like she had all the time in the world.
And in that moment, I did too.
There was nothing to figure out. No ritual to complete. No grand meaning to extract.
Just a chair that held me, a sweater that felt like home, and a sky so old it made my thoughts go quiet.
And the quiet joy of choosing to stay with myself—fully, gently—for a little while longer.
I think we forget sometimes that we are nature. Not just walking through it or taking pictures of it—but in it. Of it.
We’re part of the same rhythm as the leaves, the moon, the wind chimes. Breathing in. Letting go. Beginning again.
Tonight reminded me that maybe we don’t always need a deeper purpose.
Maybe it’s enough to be a soft animal in a soft sweater, sitting still under a blood moon, letting the world whisper and not needing to answer back.
And maybe that’s the whole point.
To feel human again. To step out of the scroll and into the stillness.
To sit with yourself—not fixing, not chasing, just being.
And to remember that sometimes, that’s more than enough.
🌕 Reflection Prompt:
Where is your version of the chair?
What does it look like, feel like, sound like?
When was the last time you let yourself just be in it—no fixing, no capturing, no performing—just present, soft, and human?
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