audio version:
The full moon phase brings great release and learning to me, and this Harvest moon was no exception.
As I’ve written, cycling has given me wings this summer. Clocking 80-100 miles a week has not only strengthened and fortified my physical body but also empowered my confidence and courage. In the northeast, we’ve had extraordinary weather—albeit a devastating drought—and I find myself wanting to capture every morsel of nature while I can. So I ride.
That’s what brought me out the other morning when the full moon spotlighted me at 5:00 am, calling me into those early hours to experience more of her radiant glow and the quiet morning stillness. I nudged David to see if he’d like to join me and share this experience on our tandem bike—the one we’ve ridden together for thirty years. He was all in.
We took a familiar route that gives us incredible views of the Piscataqua River and then the ocean beyond. We jumped off the bike a couple of times to take photos, dreamily living this experience, soaking in every moment. Until, while crossing a grated drawbridge, we took a fall that landed us in the hospital. Two days and two surgeries later, we’re home to recover.
But here’s what I want to emphasize: this journal entry is not about the accident. It’s about all the experience brought to me.
I have been dancing with surrender lately more than ever. Whether it’s something I’m reading, a conversation I’m having with a friend or client, or an experience that begs me to let it go, there’s my friend surrender, reaching out to call me closer. I move toward her and then step back, reverting to old, more familiar protective inclinations.
But here’s the thing: when you’ve been knocked unconscious, broken bones, and cannot move without the help of those around you, you surrender. You have no choice but to fall into her arms. And this is what surrender felt like—the complete absence of fear.
When I came to consciousness, I could see David, and we were alive. Then, miraculously, there was a man beside us, appearing in what seemed like no time at all, soothing us with his words, “Help is on the way.” I remember the resonance in his voice, the gentle energy that surrounded him, and the safety I felt because he stayed with us.
From there, it was the tender touch of surrender throughout. Wayne, the paramedic in the ambulance, softly transitioning me from the stretcher to the ER: “Close your eyes. When we get to the hospital, there will be bright lights and lots of voices. I am here next to you.” The head ER nurse, Jess, keeping me updated on David’s care: “He is alright. You both will find your way through this.” The team letting us know they would find a room that could accommodate both of us, allowing us to be together in recovery. Our children’s strength in receiving the call from the hospital: “Both your parents are in the emergency room.” From that moment, our kids cared for us with the tenderest love and protection. Our family waiting to greet us when we were wheeled to our room after surgery and then the outpouring of thoughts, comfort, and concern that rose up to cradle us as the news spread.
The miracles go on and on.
So, back to surrender. It’s hard to reach for her, or anything outside your comfort zone, when you don’t know if it will catch you when you fall. But then, when life tumbles out of your control and the sweet energy of surrender meets you with open arms, you discover something profound: she was there all along, waiting. Not as something to be feared, but as a grace that arrives precisely when we need it most.
I learned that surrender isn’t about giving up, it’s about giving over. It’s trusting that when we cannot hold ourselves, we will be held. And we are, dear friends. By strangers who become angels. By paramedics who whisper comfort. By nurses who see our wholeness even when we feel broken. By children who take care of you as though you were their children. By a partner who has pedaled beside you for three decades and will continue to pedal still.
The full moon taught me to release. The fall taught me to trust. And surrender? She taught me that the softest landing comes not from bracing against the impact, but from letting go into the arms that are always, always there to catch us.
We are healing. We are held. We are learning, still, to fly.
