I Really Am Being Followed By a Moonshadow

First published in The Study of Light, on Substack, on January 6, 2026.

This collection of "my" photos kicks off with one by someone else. A couple summers ago we were too busy on moon rising night, and it seemed not to matter anyway, because the sky was overcast and the rain was coming down pretty hard. Geri and I were driving north on I-35 toward Minneapolis, probably on our way to a daughter's soccer game, or a family event. While the wipers slapped the rain to the sides, I could see some action on the shoulder of the road. Somehow the light shone through, and all we had at the ready was my phone. So Geri made a few images through the clouds and the trees and a rain-spotted pane of glass. I like this one best of all. PC: Geri Shonka

I love that moon. I love her steadiness, his truth, their luminance. I love the moon for its willingness to be put upon by humans, and called by all of our pronouns. The moon is a steady creature, reliable like a dog, and always generous. The stars fill me with wonder, and then with terror. I can’t comprehend them, not yet. But the moon comes around with a rhythm, and the rhythm is a comfort.

The first full moon of 2026: it rose outside the guest room at Dottie's (Geri's mom). Halfway across the sky it mingled with the Christmas lights in the yard. By dawn's light it set outside the living room window.

For some years, I have had a monthly date with the rising full moon. Wherever I am, whosoever I am with, when the moon rises, I am outside, looking for it. I wait for it with my heart. I make images of it with my camera. Later, I write about it in my “moon journal.” The writing is spare and underworked. Too often, “and then it rose.” But there are a few good stories mixed in there too, and I look forward to sharing them with you.

The moon lights the way through an aperture.

Once, on a Tuesday afternoon, I picked up a kid at school. He asked, eagerly, “what are we going to do today?” I told him we would go watch the moon rise. He said “I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT NO F-ING MOON!” And then we went and watched the moonrise. So it is. I might have said the same thing when I was ten (probably not). I wish for him to delight in this light when he is old like I am.

This is Part One. There will be more.

The longest and most beautiful poem ever written is actually a string of Spanish moss hanging from an oak tree in Georgia.

Sometimes it's like this. Go to a place, look, wait. Check the compass. Am I looking in the right place? Can the moon really poke through that layer of haze or clouds? (98% of the time it does). Am I here at the right time? At times I'm sure I missed it, and then I find it in front of me, already up for fifteen minutes.

Well of course I had to include one of Guru, the faithful moon dog.