The moon turns full in a few hours. I spray a quick burst of Chanel No 5 into the air and duck under the aromatic mist; bid my body to sit up and take notice. I have already pinged my crystal with a tuner and sent the vibration across my heart, throat, third eye and crown. Now I throw back the bed covers and open the door at dawn to a curtain of cold. The heart-shaped clover leaves, a deer favorite, droop with icy thick frost. I carry my crystal, which fills the palm of my hand, to the Fisher River and find a spot to place her under flowing water. It is cleanse and recharge time. This Blue Corn Moon is perfect.
My robe-covered body is chilled but I stop to fill the feeder with sunflower seeds; say good morning to pine siskin, evening grosbeak, red-breasted nuthatch, mountain and black-capped chickadees and cassin's finch. My morning symphony, movement in Awe-Major.
Chanel and I go way back. My first boyfriend gave me a bottle of cologne for high school graduation. It was tucked under a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. (Thank you Steve. Where are you now?) I still possess that now-antique bottle and occasionally dab some behind my ears. A few years back, a French friend in Taos brought me some spray cologne. Almost empty, I recently emailed a friend to pick up a bottle in the duty free store in Paris on his US return, but only if it was convenient. He did -- perfume! Packaged in a cut glass bottle, fit for the finest jewelry store. "A gift," he wrote, "congratulations on your book!"
I buy fragrance-free everything... detergents, deodorants, toilet paper, tissue. Yet here I am, seducing the muse with Chanel Number Five, stirring Zeus, lavishing Luna. Sometimes sage and sweet grass just don't cut it.