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The Moon was new in Libra this last time on October 14th … Libra, our sister of relationships, give and take, harmony, cooperation, socializing and diplomacy…

I find myself wondering where (other than in my lovely daughter’s handshake) our sister libra is hiding, lately.

Wherever she’s got to, I’m hitting pause to look at what I’m doing to channel some of her grace and good looks in my own space.

I’ve noticed over the last few weeks (maybe longer) that it’s been harder and harder to conjure a smile, harder to keep a cool and lovely demeanor. We are short-staffed and under increasing pressure at work. The news is full of war images and climate change looms large.

So I took a walk looking for libra. I left my desk early after a long day of trying to do too much with too little, put on my shoes and a jacket, and drove to a nearby cranberry bog. We recently downsized to a little cape on Cape Cod (more on that in the next blog), and our spot is close to a bog that stretches for a few acres. It’s privately owned, sports a sign that reminds folks to clean up after their dogs, and was just recently harvested. In the photo below, taken last week, the bog was flooded and the cranberries are floating on top of the water.

So I drove to the bog, parked my car, and started to walk. Crickets chirped. I passed a young man wearing sound cancelling headphones. I walked for a while, came to a small white shack that seemed to house a pump for managing water in and out of the bog. I paused to look at the pipes that emerged from it’s clapboard side, went into the ground, and emerged into a stream along the edge of the cranberries. And then I started back the way I had come.

A couple of kids on bikes zoomed by me. The trail along the bog was sandy, behind me they stopped suddenly, stuck in the sand. Shadows reaching over the tree line to the west were growing longer, but the sun on the east side of the bog, where I was walking, was still warm.

My mind was strangely quiet – there was less monkey brain than usual. Mallard ducks glided over the surface of one of the bog’s streams. Further on, seven ducks sat on a berm sunning themselves, their beautiful feathers reflecting autumn sunlight. And there were voices behind the tree line to the east. I turned right to cross a berm toward the west side of the bog, where my car was parked.

A man and his son approached, emerging from shadows, the boy flicking a stick into the water happily. When we crossed paths, the boy looked me in the eye and said “hello!” before continuing on his way. His father and I nodded acknowledgement in turn, and they continued on their way into the sun-soaked east side, toward the ducks. It felt harmonious, even lightly social.

Returning to my car I found two others parked next to me, all in a row, arrived after I had. I presumed they were there to watch the sun brighten the bog and then sink behind the trees. Maybe they did this often and knew they’d see ducks paddling through the water, and listen to crickets chirp.

I felt the hint of. a smile cross my face.