Yesterday was Sharad Poornima or the kojagiri poornima as we know it. The auspicious winter full moon night. The legend says that the divine Raas lila of Krishna ,Radha and Gopis took place on this Night in the Hindu month of Ashwin some 5000 years ago. It is believed that the moon is closest to the earth this day and it’s rays contain nourishing, cooling energies ( nector or amrut).
I remember as children we pent the night under the moon light. A special Kheer with puffed rice ( poha) or plain rice, milk and sugar was prepared and kept under the moonlight . In the early morning hours it was given as Prasadam to everyone .
For me the full moon is a mysterious wanderer of the sky. There is something magically captivating about the full moon.
Last evening Delhi received it’s first winter rain an I thought we might not see the glorious moon but the dark mourning clouds gave way to soft pink peachy clouds as the moon in all its glory began its journey in the sky
I could not go out to take photographs due to fever so decided to make the most of it from my balcony .
The clouds were a beautiful shade of peach with a slight lining of white . The sky looked absolutely divine.
For a long time I stood enveloped in the brilliant moonlight. The lovely breeze , the nip in the air , the rhythmic swaying of the trees made me wonder what the divine cosmic dance would have looked like when Krishna danced along with Radha in all his splendor.
Soaked to the core of my being in the divine lucid moonbeams I felt calm and relaxed. It is amazing how nature heals you in silence.
The night with all its mysteries always fascinated me. I was never afraid to walk alone in a starlit sky or on a full moon night. I guess those who are not afraid of the dark see the most beautiful night skies.
Living in a city has its disadvantages but when there is a will there is a way.
I remembered a poem by Davis which I read as a young girl.
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright;
Thy beauty makes me like the child
That cries aloud to own thy light:
The little child that lifts each arm
To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night
With thy white beams across their throats,
Let my deep silence speak for me
More than for them their sweetest notes:
Who worships thee till music fails,
Is greater than thy nightingales.