The moon looks pregnant, her belly bulging out to here. She lifts herself up into the night sky, with a third trimester groan.
She reject the Sun’s rhythm, and its burning ambitions. She casts her spells all night long, sprinkling the residue of magic across the stars.
She doesn’t attune to that steady, industrious , mechanical beat. The Moon reads more like a poem or a manifesto than a to-do list.
When we see the Moon only in print—captured, frozen in time, most often full and round and perfect— we become disconnected from our own soul. Domesticated. Restless.
No one’s Moon is full all. the. time.
If you wander out into the fresh night air, barefoot, with a little mischief, you may see her: Alive and rising, breathing, waxing, waning, going dark. Her Feminine power can turn the tide.
Her gift
What she gives, is everything she has, in each moment. Sometimes, glorious, enchanting, full, but just as often, disappearing, dark. “Why bother?” you say. Yet she wanes, without apology. No excuses. No disclaimers. Sometimes even a sliver can light up someone’s world.
Sometimes she finds herself spent, with nothing left to give, yet holds her course. She knows how all things come full circle.
Instead, she focuses on receiving. Reflecting, not deflecting. Absorbing Light, until she can give herself again to the lovers and poets and dreamers.
Whether she’s full, whether she’s waning, she reflects. What comes of her giving is not her work. Either way, she feels beloved by a constellation of bright beings, some kin, some beyond this realm.
Photo by Haley Owens on Unsplash
