Earth Rise on New Luna

Some mornings begin with silence, but not the kind that’s empty. The kind that listens. That’s how it is here on New Luna.

I’m an old man now—older than most bother counting these days. But even with all my years, every dawn here still surprises me. You’d think the novelty of living on the Moon would wear off. It doesn’t. Especially not when you see Earth rise with your own eyes.

That’s where I begin this telling—from my usual perch on the mossy ridge overlooking the Mirror Valley. I call it that because of the lake below, smooth as polished silver, always ready to catch the first blush of Earthlight.

You see, we don’t have sunrises here the way we did on Earth. No roosters, no dew. But we have something rarer: Earth rise. It doesn’t happen every day. But when it does, time pauses.

This morning was one of those rare gifts.

I had just brewed my nettle-root tea over the warmstone circle behind my cottage—slow and low, the way my grandmother taught me—when I felt the subtle shift in the field. It’s hard to explain, but when Earth is about to crest over the horizon, you feel her before you see her. A kind of heart pull. A reminder. A whisper of home.

So I wrapped myself in my barkcloth shawl, tucked a few dried figs in my pocket, and made my way to the ridge.

The forest here on New Luna is unlike anything back on Earth. Gravity’s softer, so the trees grow tall and delicate like dancers mid-bow. Their branches shimmer with a faint bioluminescent glow, especially at twilight. I always say, it’s like walking through a prayer.

And then—there she was.

Earth.

She rose slow, like she knew she was being watched. A glowing orb of blue and green and white, haloed in soft light. The birds—yes, we have birds now, small avian kin adapted to lunar winds—began their soft chorus.

I took it all in. The light on the lake. The hush in the trees. The hum in my bones.

And I remembered.

I remembered the old days. The noise. The forgetting. How we nearly lost this miracle of a world—both Earth and Moon—before we remembered how to live in right relation again. Before we healed the split between technology and soul.

Now, we travel not by rocket, but by resonance. Portals. Simple as opening a door. You think of the Moon, align your frequency, and step through. The shift is subtle—like a breath—but you know when it’s happened. Your bones feel lighter. Your heart more anchored. There’s a stillness here that teaches you how to listen again.

These portals where a gift from the Arcturians, when Earth joined the Galactic Federation in 2055. But actually nowadays they are not so much needed by the younger generation. For them teleporting is as easy as taking a walk. They simply remember that they themselves are a portal within the Self. This belief allows them to jump anywhere they wish to go, in the blink of an eye. These Arcturian portals are still used though by old geezers like me, that still need a permission slip for travel. But I don’t mind. It is simple enough.

Today I’ll tend my spiral garden. Maybe visit the stone archives where the children etch their dreams into crystal tablets. There’s a young one, Eliya, who draws stars I’ve never seen. Says they’re memories from a life not yet lived. I believe her.

And tonight? If the sky is clear, I’ll walk & glide with my lantern-moth and visit the singing Hathors. They often come and sing their enchanting, soulful songs at the Concert Hall of New Luna. Of course, since they are of a higher dimensional frequency, I can’t see them. Only the perceptive children can see them. But I can hear them. And what a magical sound experience it is to hear our starbrothers and sisters sing! That might be my second favorite thing of living here, after the Earthrise of course.

But for now, I’ll sit.

I’ll sip my tea, warm in my hands.

I’ll watch the light of Earth move across the lake.

And I’ll thank this life—for letting me love the Moon.

as told by Emmett