Beaver Moon

According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, the Algonquin tribes named the full moons on the East Coast.  Tonight's full moon is the Beaver Moon, named as such because this was the time to set beaver traps before the swamps froze, ensuring a supply of warm winter furs.  I took note of the rising moon two nights ago, and was impressed with its large size.  I don't think there will be an opportunity to view it in its fullness tonight, though, as the weather is grey and somber.  And speaking of grey and somber . . .

Beaver Moon - The Suicide of a Friend
Mary Oliver

When somewhere life
breaks like a pane of glass,
and from every direction casual
voices are bringing you the news,
you say: I should have known.
You say: I should have been aware. That last Friday he looked
so ill, like an old mountain-climber
lost on the white trails, listening
to the ice breaking upward, under
his worn-out shoes. You say: I heard rumors of trouble, but after all
we all have that. You say:
What could I have done? and you go
with the rest, to bury him. That night, you turn in your bed
to watch the moon rise, and once more
see what a small coin it is
against the darkness, and how everything else
is a mystery, and you know
nothing at all except
the moonlight is beautiful-
white rivers running together
along the bare boughs of the trees- and somewhere, for someone, life
is becoming moment by moment
unbearable. 

The public radio station that I listen to (WFUV in NYC) has a program in which they highlight a particular issue for a couple of months, and the current issue is teenage suicide prevention.  
According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, suicide is the third leading cause of death for youth between the ages of 10 and 24.  It results in about 4,600 lives lost each year.  I am grateful that there are organizations doing the hard work of saving young lives.

As for me, I will once again fall in love with the moon.  Because I see what a small coin it is
against the darkness, and how everything else is a mystery, and I know nothing at all except the moonlight is beautiful -- white rivers running together along the bare boughs of the trees.

And my life is bearable.