The scientists are finally catching up with me—I’ve always known we are all truly made of stardust. I would add moonbeams as well. This became very clear to me in my gorgeous ravishing years with my best friend and soul mate, Kim.
Kim and I were fascinated by the sky and we celebrated every full moon together for many years.
Sometimes we hiked to the Hollywood sign under the moonlight with a blanket and a bottle of wine. At the top, we’d sit down on the blanket shoulder to shoulder, and watch the starlight and moonbeams dance over the city lights while we talked about our dreams and wishes.
Some moons we stayed home and made ourselves crowns from the vines of nightblooming jasmine that grew over our house, wrapped ourselves in glistening golden gowns, poured juice into a silver chalice, and danced under the orange tree in our backyard.
Out of all our extraordinary full moon experiences, there was one unforgettable one.
September 27, 1996, was not just a full moon: it was a full moon lunar eclipse on the Autumn Equinox, so it felt remarkable. But there was much more happening that night besides lunar energy: a new life was coming into the world. My little sister, who lived in the mountains surrounded by golden leaves and waterfalls, was about to give birth.
It was 1am and Kim and I were living in an apartment together in Hollywood on Franklin. We gathered our sacred objects: a blanket, a chalice, wine, candles, and our crystal fairy wands wrapped in ribbons. We looked through our books to find images of goddesses and women giving birth. I had one photo of a woman laughing and crying during that one transcendent ecstatic moment when the mother gets to hold her baby in her arms for the first time. We carried our items up to the roof of the apartment building and laid out our blanket.
At that time, Kim and I had never had children, but my little sister already had three sons, and this time she was really hoping for a girl. Marlise had taped notes for herself all over her mirrors and rooms saying “It’s a girl!” and “Yes!”
Kim and I sat across from each other in criss-cross-applesauce style, and laid our objects out between us. We lit a candle, and I looked into those big brown eyes I loved so much, as we talked about our wishes for Marlise and birth and the miracle of new life. We finally grew quiet and leaned against each other to watch the ever-changing sky.
Kim laid her head on my shoulder, her dark hair cascading over my arm, the moon weaving a garland of gentle light around her.
A while later, we returned to our apartment and Kim stood next to me with both of our ears on the earpiece of the telephone, as I called Marlise in her hospital room. I had no idea if the baby had actually been born or the gender, but I went with my gut and said, “What are you going to name her?”
Ellise Autumn Luna Cusick had been born a few minutes earlier. She was technically named Ellise Marla after my Mom, but I have called her Autumn Luna since she was born because of that magical night. I like to think she was rocked into this world in a moon cradle.
Marlise was stunned that I had called her that night, and knew she had given birth to a girl. She has told that story for the past twenty-five years. (When Autumn Luna got married a few months ago, I overheard my sister repeating this story to the guests.)
Kim and I were exhausted after our ritual, like we had taken a night ride in the velvet of darkness in a kingdom where the boundaries of space and time were tossed into the sea. We ended our night the same we often did: by slow-dancing around the living room to “Let’s Get Lost” by Chet Baker, our bodies melded.
We were never two things apart or between, but one perfect thing made from stardust.
Even now, I like to go up on the roof and imagine her arms as moonbeams wrapping around me.
If she was here right now I would make her a crown of nightblooming jasmine, put my cheek against hers, and dance.
