As I walked my dog last night, two beautiful images appeared to me—and awestruck as I was, I fumbled for the phone in my pocket to capture them both for you, beloveds.
Let me set the scene.
Every day—at least once—I walk my dog to the top of the hill behind my home. I live in the woods, and the path to the base is thick with trees, not ideal for catching sunsets or moonrises. But as the granite boulders begin to rise, the land lifts with them. You gain about 80 feet of elevation between the old logging road and the crest, and at the top… everything opens.
From there, you can look down at the tops of trees. Watch birds flying below you. The sky stretches wide in every direction, uncontained and shifting. It’s magic.
The trees up there are sparse—roots gripping stubbornly to stone, fighting for nutrients and rain. It creates this beautiful openness, a clearing not made by absence, but by resilience. I love it there.
Now that my cats are old enough to join me, one of them has taken to accompanying me on these walks. Charlotte Brontë—a cat who, indoors, wants very little to do with me. No cuddling, no headbutts. She’d sooner eat a vegetable than sit with me on the couch.
But outside? She becomes my sherpa.
She watches over me. Stops abruptly in my path so I have to catch myself mid-step (and yes, I’ve kicked her before). She climbs to higher ground, then looks back at me—quietly judging, always waiting. She has never once been outside without following me all the way to the top.
The first of these sweet surprises came while I was taking photos of the camas.
Camas (overlooked by many) are a hardy perennial wildflower native to the Inland Northwest. Their history stretches far beyond us; Indigenous tribes have harvested their bulbs for generations, roasting them for food. They’re not just beautiful—they’re sustaining.
They will never not be my favorite wildflower. And I have lupine, so that’s saying something.
As I was photographing a patch nearly in full bloom, Charlotte stepped into view—mottled blonde fur drifting through the flowers like she belonged there more than I did. I snapped photo after photo as she sauntered toward me, completely unbothered. The breeziest runway model you’ve ever seen.
In that moment, I captured not just the camas against a sky slipping into twilight, but something softer, rarer—the fleeting loyalty of a cat who chooses you, just for a moment.
But the second wonder to unfurl before me… that one stopped me entirely.
Looking east, I noticed a bright light behind the trees. I squinted, blinked, focused—and there she was.
The moon.
The Flower Moon, not yet full, but close enough to command attention. She peeked through the pines of a distant ridge like she was hiding at first, then slowly revealed herself.
I lifted my camera and gave her the same reverence I’d given Charlotte—clicking, capturing, waiting as she slipped free from the branches and rose into full view.
She was so bright. Like a second sun, come to shepherd me home.
And when I zoomed in—past the fading blue of the sky, past the silhouettes of trees—there was only her. Craters, shadows, light. Singular. Steady.
The Flower Moon—like April’s Pink Moon—takes its name from the blooms that signal the reawakening of this half of the world. Phlox, early wildflowers, color returning to the earth.
And I feel it too—that pull toward movement, toward growth.
But I can’t help wondering what this same moon means elsewhere.
Somewhere, someone is watching her rise over flood-soaked land, where the ground cannot drink fast enough. Somewhere else, she hangs over dry heat, offering relief in the form of a cooler morning. Somewhere, she shines on harvest—on hands gathering and storing what the season has given.
I would never presume that everyone follows the same names, the same calendars, the same lunar traditions.
But the sky?
The sky belongs to all of us.
And the moon—this singular, shared vantage point—must stir something universal. Awe. Humility. A sense of smallness… and somehow, at the same time, connection.
Oneness.
So I hope you look up tonight, beloved.
In these next few days, as this micro moon reaches her fullness, I hope you find her. And when you do, I hope she loosens the grip of whatever you’re carrying—even if only for a moment.
I hope she stirs something in you. A quiet joy. A remembering. Something you haven’t yet learned, but somehow already know.
I hope she resets you. Cleanses you. Lifts your gaze just enough to see new possibilities, new paths, new heights.
And whatever it is you’re weathering… I hope you are released from it, if only for the length of a deep, steady exhale.
Because tonight, beloved...
the Flower Moon is stirring us all toward something magical.
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