Sacred Play

The snow crunches softly beneath our feet. It’s 11:33pm. A perfect night for an adventure.

Warm light ricochets from my solar lantern. Yellow rays swinging through cracked glass as we walk, scattering stars off the sides of Clyde (my plow truck), the Hoot Hut, earth.

Three feet in front of me, my cat Luciano rambles about, stopping suddenly to sniff the air. Aloof-alert, he tilts his head back. Mouth partly open. I do the same. We take two short breaths, quick. And a deep one, slooowww. And inhale.

Mountain Sage. Pine. Petrichor.

A breeze sweeps in. Crisp air circling around us like a serpent…then gone. Off to charm another.

A final sniff and Luciano is off. One paw, two paw. With me in tote (his vagabond crew). Mucking through mud-snow, torch in hand. We two beasties!! (I smile.)

For more than 18 years Luciano and I have been palling around. Travelers, friends, and confidants.

In March of last year, the vet found a lump. In April, I was told he was terminal.

It’s January 2026 now. And we’re still out exploring.

Suddenly, a high-pitched screech near Clyde. Short and clear. Not menacing, but not interested in company either. Hello Mr. Bobcat.

I lunge forward, swooping up Luciano and skedaddle. Three seconds later, we’re in the Hoot Hut. Lantern still swinging from my wrist.

I press my face against the window to catch Bobcat’s coat in the moonlight. Specks of silver, gold, and white. At the door, Luciano preens. De-mudding his paws meticulously. One long stretch, then a saunter over to his food dish. Really leaning into the aloof. Dining and purring.

Fueling up for our next escapade.

There’s something special about exploring at night. When so much of the world is asleep, and so many awake. Toads, lizards, nighthawks, owls. The sky.

Something sacred is going on. Something autochthonal to the night.

I love a good walkabout and am known for my moonlight ones. When I lived in Oceanside, I would regularly set out just before sunset. Walking the coastline until it got dark. And the alleyways home.

At the beach — waves crashing, foghorns, salty mist. Kelp wrapping her fingers around my ankle like a lover, before disappearing into sea.

In alleys — A red-tailed hawk in eucalyptus. Free books on a tattered chair. Windows glowing with light.

I was intrigued by it all. By the witching hours.

I felt the same way exploring with Luciano. For moon’s invitation to roam, and romp, and BE in the wild. In that sacred place of play. Together with others (Bobcat). Together alone (we two beasties).

All play is sacred. But the night invites a special kind of play and anonymity.1

Like a treefort with a special knock, there’s a pact for moonbeam roamers — that acknowledges and welcomes, but demands a kind of privacy. That insists on elbow room and play, unbridled by observation.2

When Luciano and I followed Moon’s call, we knocked on that door. And entered into that pact. We roamed, and romped, and adventured with the best of ‘em. And were reminded by Bobcat (gloriously) not to forget the sacredness of this covenant.

(We beasties were getting a bit too close to he beastie.)

We should all be so lucky.

To get screeched at in the wild every now and then.

To be reminded of how — even in our aloneness — we are not alone.