Harvest Moon...




Isn't it odd? The sun, which gives us light and warmth and life, has but four days a year when we celebrate our travels around it in the course of the year. The Vernal Equinox, The Summer Solstice, The Vernal Equinox and, my favorite, The Winter Solstice. Such a wonderful thing it is, the sun, but when we get too much of it, we complain; not enough, we complain. We sometimes dread it's rising. We sometimes fear it's setting. It's the gardener's friend and foe. It requires that we who work the soil take measures to temper it's bounty and we worry ourselves when it hides behind the veil of clouds for days on end. It is vexing...
And then, there's my good friend, my companion, my guide, my love, the fairest Selene, the enchanting Luna, our moon. How we revere our closest celestial neighbor. She governs the ebb and flow of the waters. She guides us in our gardening tasks. She sets our moods, whether we realize it or not. I garden by the moon. There are moon times to set plants, to turn ground, to dig holes, to prune, to sow seeds and to reap. Mankind and Womankind have lived their lives under the smile of the sun, but have led their lives by the turn of the moon. Tonight is the Harvest Moon, as we of the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon ilk have named it. The full moon of this time of year was a gift to the farmers, who would work through the night, under her subtle glow, to get in all the crops needed to survive another coming winter. Hay was mown, by scythe and sickle, gathered and tied to stand in the sun and dry, to become fodder and bedding for animals, stuffing for mattresses and boots. Grain was gathered. Corn was harvested. Every crop that could be, was gathered under this moonlight. And, to those who lived in that harder time, the moon imparted something special to those crops, empowered them with something mystical and wonderful. Barley gathered under the light of the Harvest Moon was brewed into special ales and wines. Wheat was woven into intricate corn dollies by the English farmers, special figures for luck and health and protection.
Each civilization and culture had their own names for this special moon; to the Chinese, it is The Chrysanthemum Moon; to the Choctaw, The Mulberry Moon; there are many, many more.
As a child, I was fascinated, no, awed, by the moon. I would lay in bed on Summer nights, the hope of breeze sneaking in the open window, bathing in the light of the full moon. I felt something that I could not recognize as a child, but now I know that feeling was peace. As a child, I would walk the woods on Winter's night, the trees alight with the sparkle of the moon on the crystals of snow piled in thin lines on the empty branches, the blue glow of the ground where the light streamed down through the skeletons of the towering trees. I felt something that I could not appreciate on those childhood walks, but I know it now as true wonder. And the garden, oh, what a wonderful thing it is to sit in a garden under the light of the moon. The living plants take on such a wonderful, subtle new color under that light. I sit so still, watching the flitting moths take their nocturnal nourishment, wondering, hoping that one might not really be a moth, but might be one of the shy Faery folk, the bashful Fae, come to dance amongst the muted glow of the blooms, to drink the nectar of the nodding flowers, to flick on some unsuspecting toad the drops of dew formed on the still leaves... ah, if only.
So, tonight, turn off your porch light, stand in your back yard and look up at the wonderful, mysterious and giving Harvest Moon. Let your face bathe in her light. Let your soul drink her special love. I shall be. And I shall be thinking of you...



sow what you will...