Hey Rockstars,

To continue the celestial theme, lately I have been thinking about moonlight.

Apparently, my personality now consists of finding a celestial fact, becoming emotionally overwhelmed by it, and writing a thousand words about why it is secretly a metaphor for being alive.

So, here we are again.

Moonlight is not technically light created by the Moon. The Moon does not produce its own visible light. What we call moonlight is sunlight that has traveled from the Sun, reached the Moon, struck its surface, and then reflected back toward Earth. The Moon is not glowing on its own. It is returning something that first arrived from somewhere else.

Maybe that feels significant because we speak about the Moon as though the light belongs to it. We say the Moon is shining. We write songs about moonbeams and poems about lunar glow. We rarely look up and think, there goes the Moon, reflecting sunlight. 

That would be significantly less romantic.

But reflection is not less magical than creation. Perhaps taking in light, changing it through contact with your own surface, and sending it somewhere new is its own kind of creation. One of my favorite scenes in Gilmore Girls is when Lorelai and Luke are dancing to the song “Reflecting Light” and not only is it incredibly sweet, but there’s a line in it that is made for this exact blog post: “The moon’s never seen me before, but I’m reflecting light.” 

Perhaps we do not have to be the original source of something beautiful for it to become part of what we offer. We can receive light, carry it for a while, and return it in a form that has become distinctly our own. 

The light that reaches us from the Moon is not quite the same as the light that left the Sun. It has traveled and encountered something. It has touched ancient volcanic plains, craters, dust, and rock. Most of the sunlight that reaches the Moon is absorbed and only about one-tenth is reflected back into space. And yet, that small fraction is enough for a full moon to cast shadows on Earth. 

That small fraction is luminous.

And then there is moondust. 

Moondust is the finest part of the lunar regolith, formed as meteoroids struck the Moon and shattered its surface into tiny fragments. Because there is no wind or flowing water to soften their edges, the particles remain jagged and abrasive. They can also become electrically charged, causing them to cling stubbornly to nearly everything they touch. 

I cannot stop thinking about the fact that moonlight reaches us only after touching a surface covered in the remnants of impact.

The impacts did not create the light, but they shaped the surface that returns it to us. Maybe moonlight and moondust are not opposites. Maybe they are collaborators. One is what the world sees from a distance. The other is what remains up close.

The Moon itself is much darker than it appears from Earth. Its surface is mostly shades of gray, shaped by ancient lava flows and volcanic rock. It looks brilliant because it is surrounded by darkness and because, from our particular distance, even the small amount of sunlight it reflects appears extraordinary.

Sometimes brightness is not the absence of darkness. Sometimes brightness is darkness learning what to do with the light that reaches it.

Again, this feels scientifically true and emotionally unreasonable. How often do we assume that something luminous must have always been made of light?

I think there are people like that. People who take every kind thing ever given to them and try to multiply it. People who remember what it felt like to be encouraged and become enthusiastic encouragers. People who were once lonely who now make a deliberate practice of noticing who is standing alone. People who know how heavy life can become, so they try to be gentle with everyone carrying it.

Perhaps some of the brightest people are not bright because nothing dark has ever touched them. Perhaps they shine because it has.

I think sometimes I’m moonlight.

I move through the world wanting to illuminate things. I want people to know the exact qualities that make them remarkable. I want celebrations to feel like celebrations. I want thank-you messages to communicate the full scale of my gratitude, even if that requires several paragraphs in sparkly gel pen or an irresponsible number of exclamation points and heart emojis.

I have never been particularly skilled at caring quietly. I overthink. I overgive. I overtrust. I pour my whole heart into friendships, projects, gifts, conversations, and people. I remember small details and assign enormous emotional meaning to them. I want the people I love to feel known, and sometimes I want this with an intensity that is difficult to contain.

Moonlight is like that too. It falls across oceans, rooftops, gardens, highways, and bedroom floors. It reaches open windows and closed curtains. It shines on people who admire it and people who never notice it is there.

Sometimes this is beautiful. Sometimes it is probably annoying.

There are nights when moonlight is exactly what the world seems to need. It makes ordinary streets look enchanted. It draws silver edges around trees. It gives the ocean another surface on which to sparkle. There are also nights when “going-to-bed Sandhya” welcomes it into a hotel room, while “4-a.m.-ugh-I-want-to-sleep-more Sandhya” gets up and closes the blackout curtains.

I suppose that is the complicated part of being moonlight. Shining is not always the same thing as helping. Sometimes generosity is knowing what to offer, and sometimes the most loving thing light can do is remain outside the window. Even the Moon’s light has boundaries. The Moon follows an orbit. It obeys distance and gravity. Its light reaches us according to angles, timing, and position. It does not illuminate everything everywhere all at once.

I am learning that pouring my whole heart into everything does not require emptying it. Sincerity does not become less sincere when it develops discernment. I can care without making myself responsible for illuminating every darkness I encounter. 

Other times I think I am moondust. Sometimes I am the part left behind after impact, evidence that something collided with me and changed the landscape. I am sharp in places because no wind has reached me there yet. I cling to people, memories, and meanings because some experiences charge us. Some experiences settle into the seams. They make us tender, watchful, or afraid. Sometimes they make us hold on more tightly than we intended.

But moondust is also part of the surface that reflects the light. The Moon does not wait until every crater is filled and every sharp edge is softened before it shines. It reflects light from the surface it actually has.

Maybe healing is not becoming untouched. Maybe it is learning how to receive light on the landscape that remains. Maybe the evidence of impact can coexist with tenderness, generosity, and wonder.

The Moon also reminds us that visibility is not the same thing as wholeness. What we see as its phases is not the Moon repeatedly becoming whole and then breaking apart. Half of the Moon is always illuminated by the Sun. The changing shapes we see are created by the relationship between the Sun, the Moon, and Earth. A crescent Moon is not an incomplete Moon. It is a whole Moon viewed from a particular angle.

One of my favorite celestial facts is that the Earth has phases too. From the moon, the Earth can appear full, crescent, or somewhere in between depending on the position of the Sun, Earth and Moon.

But do the moon and the earth not interpret a crescent as evidence that it has become less substantial? Absolutely not. They don’t rush toward fullness to reassure the sky, and they do not apologize for disappearing into the shadows. They remain whole through every phase.

Maybe people can do that too. Maybe I do not have to be fully visible, fully available, or fully understood in every moment to remain myself. Maybe I can withdraw some of my light without becoming cold. Maybe a quieter version of me is not a diminished version of me.

There is another kind of reflected light called earthshine. Near a new moon, sunlight reflects off Earth, travels to the Moon, and softly illuminates the portion that appears dark from our perspective. We shine on it too. I love the reciprocity of that. The Moon reflects light toward Earth, and Earth reflects light toward the Moon. Neither is the original source, but both participate in the brightness.

Recently, I was listening to “Aao Naa,” a Bollywood song I loved growing up. It has always sounded ethereal to me, but this time I caught myself thinking, This is what being in love sounds like.

So, naturally, I made a playlist with that exact title.

I added “Aao Naa,” “Steal the Show,” and “Aankhon Mein Teri,” another song that has always felt illuminated from within. One of its lyrics says, “Tere saath saath aaisa, koi noor aaya hai. Chand teri roshni ka, halka sa ek saaya hai.” Loosely translated, it means that someone carries such extraordinary light that even the Moon’s glow becomes only a faint shadow in comparison.

Sometimes another person introduces us to an entirely new kind of brightness. They do not become the source of all our light, but their presence changes the way the universe looks. Familiar songs sound different. Ordinary moments feel illuminated. Perhaps love is not only something we feel. Sometimes it is a quality of light by which we begin to see everything else.

This past weekend I hung out with Stephanie and her husband George, who are both really kind, warm, and genuine people. When we were making plans for the afternoon, Stephanie said “I can show you the house and we can make tea or coffee,” to which I responded, “That is my IDEAL hangout.” Then I went over there, kind of overstayed my welcome, as we chatted and caught up about life. And after a delicious dirty chocolate chai, I drove home feeling light, loved, and wonderful.

Perhaps that is what I want more of in my life. Not endless pouring outward, but light received, transformed, and returned. Care moving in more than one direction. A universe in which being luminous does not require one celestial body to burn alone.

All in all, it’s all celestial. I feel made of something ancient and consequential. I feel like the things I do enter the universe and become part of it. The love I give does not disappear simply because I cannot always see where it lands.

A star can send light across an impossible distance without ever knowing what it illuminates. It may fall across a window, guide someone through the dark, or reach a person who looks up at precisely the right moment. The star does not receive confirmation. It does not know whether its light mattered. It simply continues to shine, and somewhere, the darkness is different because it did.

I think love can work that way too. Maybe the encouragement I give becomes someone else’s courage. Maybe the way I celebrate a person teaches them that they are worthy of being celebrated. Maybe a kindness I have forgotten becomes part of the way someone treats another person years later. Perhaps love is not lost when it leaves us. Perhaps it changes form. 

And maybe that is where stardust enters the story. Moondust is the evidence of what has struck us. Stardust is the reminder that even the smallest particles can become part of something enormous. It is matter traveling through darkness, gathering, transforming, and eventually becoming part of worlds, oceans, bodies, and beating hearts.

Stardust makes me think that something does not have to be large to be consequential. A small act of tenderness can enter the universe and become part of what happens next. It can gather with other acts of kindness, encouragement, and love until, together, they become the substance of a different world.

Sometimes I’m moonlight. I shine farther than I intended. I give more than the moment asked of me. I mistake the desire to illuminate for the obligation to do so. Sometimes I’m moondust. I am sharp, clingy, and carrying evidence of impact. Sometimes I’m stardust, small but elemental, carrying the possibility of becoming part of something much larger than myself.

Most of the time, I think I am all three. I am simply a person who wants to believe that every sincere thing we offer leaves the universe slightly more luminous than we found it. I am the light I return, the landscape that changes it, and the ancient matter that connects me to everything else. I am tenderness and texture. Reflection and residue. Small particles with consequence.

The Moon does not have to choose between being luminous and being marked. The stars do not have to choose between being distant and becoming part of us.

And now, I’m learning I don’t have to choose either.

Until next time!

xo

Sandhya