{"id":156487,"date":"2021-12-17T13:41:34","date_gmt":"2021-12-17T18:41:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=156487"},"modified":"2026-03-16T11:49:20","modified_gmt":"2026-03-16T15:49:20","slug":"long-night-moon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/12\/17\/long-night-moon\/","title":{"rendered":"Long Night Moon"},"content":{"rendered":"

In her monthly column\u00a0The Moon in Full<\/a>, Nina MacLaughlin illuminates humanity\u2019s long-standing lunar fascination. Each installment is published in advance of the full moon.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Harald Sohlberg. M\u00e5nesskinn (Moonlight), 1907. Photo \u00a9 O. Vaering, Norway<\/p><\/div>\n

The birds have gone. Off to pull worms from softer earth, drawn by the magnetic force alerting them each year to leave. Their shadows slid across the fields, reflections shivered over the dark surfaces of rivers and ponds. Each month has flown away, leaving a year\u2019s worth of shadows and reflections on the surface of the mind. We\u2019ve landed in December. Night is at its longest now.<\/p>\n

During one of these cold, endless nights not long ago, I woke up in the threes. What had roused me from sleep, I don\u2019t know. A car alarm, a thud from the apartment above, whatever nameless summoner draws us on certain nights from dreams into the waking dark. The edges of the bureau dissolved into the wall, the mirror angled back the streetlamp\u2019s light entering through the window, a serpent-tongue plant on the desk looked like an octopus diving in the deep. A hunchback appeared where there\u2019d been a jacket on the chair; the spines of all the books were blank. Then the monsters arrived. In Japanese folklore, a menacing creature called umib\u014dzu<\/em> rises suddenly from calm, fair-weather seas, smashing ships and drowning sailors. No high wind precedes it, no foreboding churn or thunder in the distance. It erupts, this deadly spirit made of shadow, tentacled, smooth-headed, saucer-eyed.<\/p>\n

Is that vague pain on my right side an organ rotting? Will I never be good at the one thing I want to be good at? Are we teetering toward our own extinction? On and deeper, darker, worse. You\u2019ve had nights like this, too, when in the still and shadowed room the clawed parts stir, rise, give reminders of your every flaw and fear. Cringing in the dim, with hours left till sunrise. The scalding flash of tasks undone, the punch of regret, the swallowing void of opportunities missed, the yellow sour-tongued lick of guilt, the quarrels unresolved despite so many one-sided rehearsals. On certain licoricey nights, a signal is ignited that begins the parade of our malignancies. They torment us, bash their pots and pans, blow their mournful horns, stomp and thrash, or worse, in silence, drag us down into their pits. Lurking even lower, feeding these smaller nighttime demons, lives dense-shadowed shame. \u201cNight is their kingdom,\u201d Novica Tadi\u0107 writes in a poem called \u201cDark Parts.\u201d \u201cThey stay where they are \/ in our chests, \/ murmuring in our hearts.\u201d There\u2019s a night inside us, in the heart\u2019s synchronized pulses, and now and then we\u2019re offered entry to the pooling place where it lives.<\/p>\n

Then the morning came, as mornings do. The dark saturated into a deep blue that right-side-outed to a gray the moon retreated into. Out the window, leaves still clung to branches of the sycamore, a ragged few. Inside, the desk regained its edges. Forms reformed. Red jacket on the chair. Titles on spines. The dark clawed creatures slunk back in their holes, as I looked around, scrape-eyed, relieved to be delivered into day.<\/p>\n

I have felt, on mornings after sleepless hours aggressed by failures, fears, perversities, depravities, that my perspective had been skewed in the night. The sun rises, the world reassembles, and I curse the twisting dark. But it\u2019s the sun\u2019s light, insistent, interrogatory, that tricks us into believing in the knowable and solid. In those long nights, perspective is not skewed, but opened wider. The moon\u2019s silver quiet light allows for these encounters with the parts of ourselves that hide in caves, the banished parts. The moon knows: we need to see.<\/p>\n

\u201cWere it not for shadows, there would be no beauty,\u201d Jun\u2019ichir\u014d Tanizaki writes in his essay \u201cIn Praise of Shadows.\u201d What cannot be fully seen offers \u201ca moment of mystery \u2026 of trance,\u201d stepping out of the world of jackets and chairs and dropping into a duskier range of possibility. Frightening, sure, and uncomfortable\u2014as most worthwhile things are\u2014to be reawakened to shame. It\u2019s seeded in us when we\u2019re small, before language, and nestles in the same deep snarl as fear. Near shame\u2019s tangled root lies the fear that our true monstrosity will be found out, and we\u2019ll be flung from the human scene into some iced and all-dark realm without love or comfort. \u201cShame on you\u201d goes the phrase, the fecal smearing, stinking and repugnant. More: shame in <\/em>you, in me, in all of us, and the moon can coax it out with its magnetic light, gentle and enveloping. Otherwise that shadow eats you from the inside out.<\/p>\n

In one telling of the umib\u014dzu<\/em> story, the spirit rises from the waves, towers over a sailor and asks, \u201cAm I terrifying?\u201d The sailor replies, \u201cI find nothing as terrifying as trying to make my way in this world.\u201d The umib\u014dzu<\/em> vanishes. It\u2019s a savvy answer. The sailor acknowledges the creature, does not deny its horror, and states that there are greater fears. Know the frightening thing, look it in the eye. It\u2019s not gone but reabsorbed, less inclined to swallow you whole. Your shadows are as much a part of you as your jawbone or your laugh. Like the moon itself, we\u2019re half lit, the other side in darkness. As the poet Alejandra Pizarnik writes, \u201cIt\u2019s night inside of you. Soon you\u2019ll witness the rearing up of the brave animal that you are. Heart of night: I ask you to speak.\u201d<\/p>\n

What does the heart of night have to say? It dares you to enter its perilous uncertainty. I used to fear that below the shadows were more shadows, a dark so dense its gravity, at some point, would grow inescapable. (It was for Pizarnik, who swallowed a handful of Seconal, a pill to treat insomnia, and went to sleep forever.) But the moon opens the night jar of the heart and inside, beneath the layers of fear and shame, lives another form of light. It does not glow like moonlight and it does not shine like sunlight. It is like no light any of us have seen with our eyes, a light like bells. When the moon draws out the shadows it can guide us to this light in the darkest center, in every heart pulse and in every pause that breaks the eternity of a sleepless night. There it is, this light, and it is\u2014can I say it? Why this shame? This light, brave animal, can I say it? It\u2019s love.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Nina MacLaughlin is a writer in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her most recent book is <\/em>Summer Solstice<\/a>. Her previous columns for the\u00a0<\/em>Daily\u00a0are\u00a0Winter Solstice<\/a>,\u00a0Sky Gazing<\/a>,\u00a0Summer Solstice<\/a>,\u00a0Senses of Dawn<\/a>, and\u00a0Novemberance<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lurking even lower, feeding these smaller nighttime demons, lives dense-shadowed shame.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2669,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68286],"tags":[67827,7359,12454,8962,13131,26179],"class_list":["post-156487","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-moon-in-full","tag-featured","tag-full-moon","tag-monsters","tag-night","tag-shame","tag-solstice"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLong Night Moon by Nina MacLaughlin<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 17, 2021 \u2013 Lurking even lower, feeding these smaller nighttime demons, lives dense-shadowed shame.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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