Blue Moon Reflection: Widening the Frame in Overwhelming Times
I have been playing with the experience of an event, interaction, or emotion seeming much bigger than it actually is. It is as if that particular emotion takes up 95% of my brain and body, squeezing out all the other parts of my life I want to be present for. Before, I would just let this be, knowing it would get smaller over time, but this year I got curious. I began to wonder: why has this emotion become so substantial? What am I being invited to see? Is there a different way to hold this?
As I reflected, I found myself thinking about layers and my attraction to them. There was a spark there. I remembered when my kids were young and would walk up holding a toy or a book directly in front of my eyes. Suddenly everything else disappeared. That object became all my vision could take in until I shifted myself.
This is exactly what is happening.
My mind is taking one thing and placing it directly in front of all the other parts of my living experience. I can only see the layer right in front of me. If I want that thing to return to the size it naturally is, I need enough spaciousness to see all the layers, not just the top one.
This weekend is a Blue Moon — the second full moon within one calendar month. Because this only happens every two to three years, I pay attention when one arrives. What feels especially meaningful about this Blue Moon is that it is also a micromoon, meaning the Moon will be near its farthest point from Earth, appearing slightly smaller and dimmer than an average full moon.
There is a part of me that says, “Well, I want the big showy full moon.”
But there is another, quieter part that feels curious.
What does this moon invite me into?
What if this moon is not asking me to look at what feels biggest, but instead inviting me to step back far enough to see more clearly? To remember that the thing taking up all the space in my vision may not actually be as large as it feels.
Maybe this moon is an invitation into perspective.
Into remembering the wider landscape of my life.
At this time in our world, there are so many enormous things asking for our attention, taking up space in our minds and bodies. Grief, violence, uncertainty, war, collapse. So many experiences arrive directly in front of our eyes until they begin to feel like the whole landscape.
But perhaps part of staying human is remembering to see all the layers.
Not to deny heartbreak or turn away from devastation, but to allow beauty to exist alongside it. To remember that even in the presence of immense sorrow, there is still a flower opening toward the sun, a bee moving gently from blossom to blossom, the ache and beauty of a sunset washing the sky in colour.
These moments do not erase suffering. But they soften the hard edges that form when one layer becomes the only thing we can see.
Perhaps spaciousness is not about looking away, but about widening our gaze enough to hold more of what is true at once.
Open Ocean image by Michele Walker
Wander Practice: Widening the Frame
Begin this wander carrying one thing that has been taking up a great deal of space in your mind or body. You do not need to solve it or fully understand it. Simply acknowledge that it is here.
As you walk, notice what your attention immediately reaches for. What pulls your focus? What narrows your vision?
When you find yourself locked onto one thing — a thought, emotion, worry, or even an object in the landscape — pause.
Without looking away from it completely, slowly widen your gaze.
Notice what exists around it.
What sits at the edges?
What was invisible a moment ago?
What other layers are present at the same time?
Perhaps there is birdsong beneath traffic.
Softness beside grief.
Movement beside stillness.
Colour beside heaviness.
Experiment with physical distance as well. Step closer to something, then farther away. Notice how scale changes depending on your relationship to it.
You may wish to use your phone camera during this wander:
take one close-up image where the subject fills the entire frame
then take another image pulling back enough to include the wider landscape
What changes between the two images?
What becomes possible when more enters the frame?
Toward the end of your wander, find one small living thing — a flower, moss, a bee, grass moving in wind, light through leaves — and spend a few moments with it.
Not as an escape from what feels large,
but as a reminder that life is always happening in layers.
Before returning home, ask yourself:
What have I made larger than its natural size?
What other truths exist alongside this?
What becomes possible when I widen the frame?