Fly Me to the Moon

If you had looked just to the right of the moon at 9:20pm on May 27th, you would have seen a rocket pass by. Or, you wouldn’t have, because it was postponed at the last minute, and what you would have actually seen at 9:20pm was me, sat by the water, looking just to the right of the moon.

I’m lucky enough to live in a part of the city that is both tranquil and vibrant - just by the water, near the quayside on the outskirts of a large city. Whilst I might not have spotted any rockets on this evening, what I did see proved to be much more beautiful than I had imagined.

I was sat on a wooden bench that resembled more of an art installation that it did your generic bench; winding in a way that didn’t possibly make sense to me but still provided a comfortable enough seat to watch the world go by. Across the water I could hear, and could just about see, a two-person exercise class: “Breathe - one, two, three - breathe.” Social distancing at its finest.

The water rippled as a bevy of swans made themselves known; majestic creatures, but not ones that are afraid of asserting dominance in their own territory. They passed behind me graciously and moved closer to the man who was circling a different winding bench, not far from where I’m sat, whilst passionately speaking down his phone. Quite paradoxically, his temperament was calm but his erratic movements signalled a sense of distress. Sooner, rather than later, his voice grew quieter and he disappeared somewhere south of the bridge.

On the other side of the water stood a small group of friends, playing their music loudly, but not in the obnoxious sense that you might imagine. The light from the sunset reflected from the glass building behind where they stood. It hit the water, dancing between the ripples as the breeze strengthened. The street lamps flickered once and then twice before coming alive; a gentle orange glow that complimented the pink that was starting to invade the sky.

As the light of the sun dimmed, the moon grew clearer and more vibrant; a slither of a crescent, alone and still in an almost cloudless sky. In the air was a sense of peace that seems to be a recurring theme throughout this lockdown. Whether it’s from the confinements of your living room or the openness of the outdoors, a new idea of tranquility and simultaneous awareness has greeted my everyday tasks. The grass has never been this green, the birds have never chirped so loudly.

In a world of constant movement, from how fast you run for the bus to how quickly your mindset grows and evolves, feelings of stillness can be scarce. Being present, until now, has been no more than an idea that I had read about in self-help guides and books written by life gurus that have things a lot more sorted out than I do. This evening, as I sat and watched the light grace the water, I felt still.

Before long, the music and laughter had died down, the exercise class had come to an end and even the swans had disappeared into the night to embrace the stillness. All that was left was the light of the crescent moon on the water and the soft sound of the wind as it skimmed across the quays. You could fly me to the moon, but I think I prefer it here.

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