Super Moment

What constitutes the happiest moment of your life? When you discovered you were pregnant? The first time you held your baby? The moment he proposed?

If today I was forced to choose what it was for me, I believe I might have an answer.

It was the night of the Super Moon and started with a simple meal, just the four of us. It’s so rare we all eat together in our little kitchen nook. But when we do, we have a tradition. First dinner, then out for ice cream, then a Drive-Out.

When I was a girl in Southern California, on cool nights my dad used to tell us to grab our winter coats so we could go “skiing.” On a long stretch of road somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, we’d open all our windows, pick up speed, and lean just inches into the outside to feel the cold rush of wind on our faces. This was thrilling and it didn’t matter that we didn’t have the money to actually go skiing.

Our new tradition reminds me of those nights.

The deal is, with our ice cream cones, we drive through the nicer parts of our neighborhood with our car stereo bumping as loud as we dare. We each have our own favorite song that we hear at least once. Everyone sings, uninhibitively, mint chocolate chip soothing the vocal cords.

But on this night, our Drive-Out was just the prelude.

After Gigi’s “I Love Rock n Roll”, Harrison’s “Dynamite”, my “Born This Way” And Daddy’s, um, whatever it is Daddy listens to, it was time to go home, brush teeth and get jammies on. We had somewhere else to go.

We’d heard about the Super Moon throughout the day and vaguely knew the time of night when we could see it. Twenty minutes before that time, we set out to watch the spectacle along Lake Washington at Magnuson Park.

We parked the car near the other cars who, presumably, were waiting for the same show.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Did we misread the news? Was that Central time? Was it last night?

At about eleven minutes the sky above Kirkland, already glowing from city lights, became ever so slightly more illuminated.

I had no grand expectations. It would be a silver moon, probably looking bigger because of its proximity to the horizon. But it was a rare one, so we had to watch. When you become a parent, missing these things causes not only wondering disappointment, but irrevocable guilt. It’s difficult to make up for things that only come around once every twenty years.

Then with almost imperceptively slow celestial magic, the moon’s red color emerged just above the city. It continued its majestic rise until it was a full sphere, its reflection duplicated on the smooth lake. The crowd by the lake was thin. Maybe a dozen people where we were. This made the moment quietly intimate.

I stood there watching the moon, holding my daughter, shaking with my love for her. I nestled into her hair as though this was it. This was all there was.

It was the closest I’ve felt to ecstasy. Drinking in the heavens with my eyes. Holding them ethereally with my arms.

I don’t think we can define our happiness with the quantity of happy moments we experience through life, though that’s nice too. I think rather we should include in that definition our ability to wholly feel these most rare moments as intensely as we’re able to do. They may only come around once every twenty years.