The Moon Was There All Along

Bird Droppings November 6, 2026

The Moon Was There All Along

Some mornings the sky simply takes your breath away. This morning was one of those mornings. I started out in the darkness, following roads I have traveled hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times. The crescent moon hung in the sky, and there was just enough light along the horizon to suggest something special might be coming. Over the years, I’ve learned to pay attention to those little suggestions.

As the morning unfolded, brilliant oranges, pinks, and golds stretched across the horizon. Fog settled into the valleys and drifted across the reservoir, softening the landscape and giving everything an almost mystical appearance. I hurried toward the reservoir, hoping the colors would hold long enough for a few photographs. That is always a gamble. Sometimes the most spectacular colors disappear in seconds. Other mornings they linger, changing almost imperceptibly as the sun climbs. This morning they lingered.

I have photographed the same places for years. Once, I spent a month or two photographing virtually the same view every morning. Not one photograph was identical. The trees were the same, the road was the same, and the horizon had not moved. Yet every morning offered something different. Perhaps that is one reason I continue getting up before sunrise.

Something new is always waiting to be seen. I drove along Deer Road, looking at the pastures and fence lines. Initially, there were no deer. I had almost resigned myself to a morning of beautiful skies without any wildlife encounters. But something told me to go back.

I returned toward the pasture, where the old board fence had several missing boards. Just as I approached, a doe suddenly came through the fence and crossed the road in front of me.

I stopped and gave her a moment to settle before taking her photograph. Then I turned and discovered another doe on the opposite side of the road. She appeared ready to follow.

Another photograph. Another unexpected moment. It reminded me of yesterday’s encounter with the doe and her three youngsters, grazing beside the road on a morning when I had not expected to see any deer at all.I sometimes wonder about these little coincidences.

Carl Jung used the term synchronicity to describe meaningful coincidences that seem connected even when no obvious causal relationship exists. One of his best-known accounts involved a patient describing a dream about a golden scarab. As she talked, Jung heard a tapping at the window. When he opened it, he discovered a beetle resembling the one in her dream.

The event became meaningful because of its timing and its connection to what they were discussing. I am not suggesting that the deer somehow knew I was coming or that the universe arranged their appearance for my benefit. Deer have their own reasons for moving through the woods and crossing roads.But I do find myself wondering about the relationship between being present, paying attention, and recognizing moments that might otherwise pass unnoticed.

Had I continued driving instead of turning around, I would have missed those deer. Had I stayed in bed another thirty minutes, I might have missed the sunrise. Had I been preoccupied with everything waiting for me at home, I might have driven past without seeing much of anything.

Perhaps what Jung called synchronicity sometimes begins with our willingness to notice.

I think about that in terms of teaching as well.

For years, I tried to create classrooms where students could discover things for themselves. I filled rooms with books, animals, aquariums, plants, and opportunities to explore. I wanted students to ask questions, make connections, and occasionally find something they had not been looking for. Learning seldom follows a perfectly straight line. Sometimes the most important lesson is the one that interrupts the lesson we had planned. John Dewey understood the importance of experience in education. But experience alone is not enough. We must reflect on what we experience, make connections, and let those experiences shape what comes next.

Perhaps my morning drives are a little like that. I go looking for deer and discover a sunrise.

I go looking for a photograph and find myself thinking about Jung.

I watch the fog drifting across a pasture and remember students who found something meaningful in a classroom full of living things. One experience leads to another.

And I have come to appreciate something else. The landscape does not need to change dramatically to offer something new. Sometimes all that changes is the light, the clouds, the fog, or the angle from which we are looking. The same might be said of people. We can encounter someone day after day and still discover something new if we are willing to look carefully enough.

This morning, the sky was crisscrossed with aircraft condensation trails. They added another pattern to an already remarkable sky. Even those changing atmospheric conditions became part of the morning’s picture. Nothing stays quite the same. Eventually, I headed home for breakfast, my morning medicine, and the responsibilities waiting for me. Photographs to sort through, schoolwork to complete, and the ordinary concerns that seem to accompany every day.

But for a little while, none of those things mattered quite as much as the light spreading across the horizon and two deer appearing unexpectedly along a familiar road. I have often written that the deer don’t wear watches. Apparently, neither does the sunrise. Both arrive on their own schedules, whether I am ready or not.

Maybe the lesson this morning is simply that we cannot control every moment, but we can learn to recognize the beauty in the moments we are given. The moon was there all along. The deer were somewhere beyond the fence. And the sunrise was waiting for anyone willing to look.

Perhaps the greatest discoveries are not always found by searching harder, but by paying closer attention. Please keep all the children in harm’s way in your hearts and on your minds. Namaste.

My family and friends, I do not say this lightly,

Mitakuye Oyasin

(We are all related)

docbird