When I think of death, I think of full moons. <\/p>\n
Full moons are a mundane experience, but seeing a fat red moon rising over the hills is as close to true magic as ordinary life comes.<\/p>\n
A few years ago, it occurred to me that each number of full moons alloted to a person is finite. An obvious observation, I know. But still one of those things that hits you hard at the moment you observe it.<\/p>\n
If life goes along in it’s merry way, I may have 200, even 300, full moons left. That sounds like a lot of full moons. Surely I can afford to squander dozens of those in busy oblivion. But what about the day when you’re finally down to one full moon<\/a> — and you can’t even be sure of that?<\/p>\n Appreciate those full moons, dear readers. Or those puppy kisses or orgasms or moments of cuddling your spouse or pushing your child on a swing. Or those bites of rare steak or chocolate cake. Or those pink and gold dawns. While you’ve got them.<\/p>\n —–<\/p>\n Mike Vanderboegh, good man that he is, has considered what will happen to us and his causes after his last full moon has gone down: His son has taken on the blogging<\/a> at Sipsey Street. Big shoes to fill there, son. But thanks for stepping into them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When I think of death, I think of full moons. Full moons are a mundane experience, but seeing a fat red moon rising over the hills is as close to true magic as ordinary life comes. A few years ago, it occurred to me that each number of full moons alloted to a person is finite. An obvious observation, I know. But still one of those things that hits you hard at the moment you observe it. If life goes along in it’s merry way, I may have 200, even 300, full moons left. That sounds like a lot of…<\/p>\n