The moon represents what I seek, but words are all I can offer now

By David McElroy · September 14, 2019

I’m driven tonight by a restlessness which has no name.

I’m looking for something, but I can’t remember what I’m looking for. I’m trying to fill a hole, but I can’t look into the hole to see what’s missing. There’s something priceless which is almost within my grasp, but it disappears when I turn to take it as my own.

As I left dinner, I couldn’t bring myself to go home. Whatever I needed — whatever I was looking for on this restless night — was not there. I was hungry, but it wasn’t for food. I was thirsty, but it wasn’t for water or any drink.

My soul was crying out in a silent scream which I couldn’t put into words but which overwhelmed me like a storm on the inside trying to break out of my raging heart.

I drove north on a small two-lane road out into the country. There were a few houses but no other signs of development. Everything was dark except for my headlights and the bright full moon above me.

And like an ancient sailor who was driven by the wails of sirens he couldn’t resist, I wanted to reach out for the moon. Surely what I seek must be there.

As I drove, the moon became the symbol of all that I needed. That’s where love was. That’s where acceptance and understanding and fulfillment were waiting. That’s the place where shame and hurt and anger could be buried — surely on the dark side — and never felt or seen again.

I’ve been chasing that moon all my life, but the truth — which every child learns — is that you can’t get any closer to the moon, no matter where you stand, where you walk, where you run or where you drive.

You can chase the moon all the way around the world and not get a bit closer. It remains out of your grasp. Sometimes brighter. Sometimes dimmer. Sometimes obscured. Always hiding. Always reminding you it’s there — but never allowing you to touch it.

When I recognized a country church where I had gone to take sunset photos in years past, I pulled onto the driveway and drove through the adjacent cemetery to a spot where there were no trees obscuring the view.

I set up a tripod among the graves and found myself thinking how odd it is that cemeteries have been the locations for so many of my shots of nature lately. I’m often not fond of being around cemeteries — even though I know the discomfort is irrational — but I didn’t feel that way tonight.

I felt as though I was protected and even guided, as though an unseen angel or spirit directed my actions. In the most paradoxical of feelings, I felt guided by love and warmth and light — even as I was reaching out to a distant moon on a dark night to find the love which I really need.

The sky was clear and bright. The moon was a beautiful shining disk which seemed to invite me to reach out for it. The stars were millions of tiny points of light all around in the vast distance beyond.

I sat on a concrete bench in the cemetery and started collecting my thoughts. Inside, the feelings make sense, but I don’t have words for them.

When I was a child, I badly wanted the love of my absent mother. I needed it so badly that I talked myself into believing that I didn’t care whether she ever came back or not. So when I felt the hurt of needing her, I learned to feel numbness inside — so I couldn’t feel the pain of a breaking heart silently pleading, “Please love me, Mother. Please come back for me.”

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here in the pleasant late-summer night. Other than crickets and the sounds I’ve made myself, I’ve heard nothing. It’s peaceful. It feels safe here, despite the odd location. I feel surrounded by something which I can’t put into words — a warm, loving presence.

I feel the odd sense that someone has brought me to this place and is pointing to the moon — and saying, “You have to go there. You’ll find everything you need there.”

When I missed my mother and needed her love, I didn’t know what I was feeling. But tonight — as I stand in this open space consecrated to the spirits of those buried here — I know what to say. And I know who I need to speak the words to.

I never resolved my need for my mother’s love and I’ll never be able to (since she’s dead). But there’s someone else I need — and I have to somehow resolve my need for her. I don’t know how she can hear me, but I know what to say.

I talked to God. I talked to someone who seemed to be with me. Angel? Spirit? I don’t know. I talked to the moon. And for a moment, it felt as though the moon was like a giant telephone or a magical looking glass just waiting to relay my words. I felt as though I could talk to her. She might not hear my voice, but I needed to say the words anyway.

“I love you,” I said clearly in the quiet night air. “I need you to know that I love you, just as you are. And I miss you so badly.”

After I spoke those words, it was as though the spell was broken. Whatever I had come to do, I had now done. I hadn’t been able to pull the moon down to Earth, but the words I spoke brought me just a little bit closer — in some way that I can’t put into words.

I can go home now. The restlessness is fading. Whatever brought me out here tonight is gone. It felt as though there was purpose. And it felt as though I did everything I needed to do when I spoke those powerful words.

“I love you.”

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Is it an attempt to blur the gender line between men and women? Or is it some weird tribute to the traditional Scottish kilt? It’s hard to say, but fashion designers keep pushing for men to wear skirts in the last few years. Both men and women in modern fashion seem oddly androgynous, as though it would be offensive for a man to look manly or for a woman to look feminine. A CNN article about the latest fashions from Paris caught my attention Monday and left me wondering about the ugly clothes the designers are hawking. If a man wants to wear a skirt — or a kilt — that’s OK with me, but I’ll stick with a traditional dark suit with a white shirt and tie. (Well, when I’m not wearing t-shirts and sweats, of course.) I always wonder who actually buys the outlandish garb from fashion designers anyway. I would be humiliated to be seen in any of this stuff, but I obviously have no sense of high fashion.

If you have problems with high blood pressure, I’d like to encourage you to consider making serious changes to your diet. There might be some people who don’t have any choice but to start taking prescription medications for high blood pressure, but I’d like to tell you that I have completely eliminated my issue by eliminating all sugar and almost all carbohydrates. (A couple of months ago, my blood pressure hit 185/144, which was dangerously high — considered stage 3 hypertension.) By completely changing my eating habits, I’m down 22 pounds and my blood pressure is now in the “ideal” range — without taking any medication. In addition, I sleep better and I have more energy. Getting away from the sugar-laden mess that we generally refer to as “highly processed food” has been a life-changer for me. Now my challenge is to avoid slipping back into old habits — by eating in the dangerous ways that almost everyone in our society has come to see as normal.

When I first heard about this, I thought it must be satire. When I discovered it was real, I was appalled, but I still thought it must be a one-time thing from some nutty activist. But it turns out it’s the latest bit of pandering to a bunch of far-left activists who believe that a man can become a woman if he decides to claim he’s a woman. As everybody knows, men have prostate glands. Women do not. Period. End of story. Men can get prostate cancer. Women cannot. But political activists are so eager to pretend that a man claiming to be a “trans woman” is really a woman that they are insisting that “women” be included in public health messages about the issue. This is nothing but political virtue-signaling. If you’re a man, you know which parts you have. You know that you ought to be screened. Nobody is made any safer by dragging far-left gender ideology into simple medical reality.

Every time someone tries to tighten requirements around the use of absentee ballots, I hear screams from Democrats and others on the political left that such efforts are nothing but “suppression of black voters.” These protests have never made sense to me, especially because it’s never been a secret that absentee ballot fraud goes on all the time in certain areas. (Everybody knew it when I worked in politics.) The people who engage in such fraud are rarely caught — often because the local political establishment approves of the crime — but a Democrat who won a primary election in Clay County, Alabama, last year has pleaded guilty to this sort of cheating. Terry Andrew Heflin was running for a place on the Clay County Commission. He was caught ordering seven absentee ballots in the names of various voters and sending them to his post office box — after which he used the ballots to vote absentee for himself seven time. Did he have other people cast additional fraudulent ballots? We’ll never know. But in a primary in which he was able to win with only 141 votes, it wouldn’t take many fraudulent votes to change the election. The next time you hear “civil rights activists” claim that it’s just “voter suppression” to hurt blacks which is at the root of efforts to stop this fraud, remember Terry Heflin. If you care about fair and honest elections, ballot security and voter identity should matter to you.

A state legislator in Maine has been stripped of the ability to speak in the state Legislature — and her votes are not being counted on legislative issues — all because she made a truthful social media post. Rep. Laurel Libby (R-Auburn, Maine) opposes allowing boys to compete against girls’ teams in school athletics and she’s become known for making an issue of it. On Feb. 17, she posted on Facebook about a recent example that she found outrageous. She posted side-by-side photos of a boy named John who competed last year in a state track event and won fifth place against other boys two years ago — and a photo of the same boy (now called Katie) who won first place in the same event this year against girls. Whether you find this outrageous or not, Libby is clearly being honest and truthful about the objective facts of an issue of public importance. But the state Legislature censured her. Democrats decreed that she could not speak in the House and that her votes would not count on legislation — until she apologized for the outrage of telling the truth. She refused and her constituents have been unrepresented in the state House since then. The people who promote this ideology are out of touch with reality and won’t rest until they force the rest of us to join them in this delusion. But even if you agree with “trans” ideology, you should be appalled at this heavy-handed attack on political speech.

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