Bottling the Moon

This weekend the stair risers were tiled, back door paint scraped off the glass, electric trenched into place for septic installation.  In a word:  busy. 

It wasn't until I sat on the first of 18 steps, trowel in hand, thinset already caked in my hair that it occurred to me how desperately I've been waiting for this moment.  And by this moment, yes - I'm talking about trowels and thinset and sweat and eye rolling.  Both moms came out for the event, and the combination of family and my engineer husband pacing over the crookedness of tiles made the day overwhelming in a way that's actually really fabulous.  Do you know what I mean?  What I mean is that we're getting into the house-y part of the house.  The stuff I've clipped out of magazines and placed into a three ringed binder that's gone ragged over the past two years.  Everyone has an opinion, and everyone's worried about things being just right, and it's really wonderful to finally hold objects in your hand that you've looked at in pictures for so long.  These aren't big things, in the grand scheme, but they're manageable and fun - and that's something. 

We ended the night on the front porch.  The moon came up from the east a pock-marked orb the color of pumpkin.  There were crickets.  An owl.  The whole deal.  And Jer asked if there's a way to bottle the feeling we still get when we see the moon rise and hear crickets.  That "itisunfreakingbelieveablethatthisismylifeIamsoverylucky" feeling.  He said that next year, the novelty will have faded.  It'll be just another moonrise.  Just another cricket chorus.  It'll be nothing special. 

The notion of forgetting makes me sad.  Which is possibly why we started this blog in the first place.  It's something to return to if we forget, and these entries serve as bookmarks in time.  And that's how I feel about Saturday night and seeing the moon come up over the hills.  It won't always be enough to make me stand still and take notice.  But right now it still stops me every time, to have the world sprawled out so peacefully before me.  I won't take it for granted.  I won't.  I will never take the land, the house, the front porch, and the moonrise for granted.  Never.

But if (when) I do, I hope to find my way back to this bookmark and these early pictures to conjure this big, big feeling of gratitude.