We spent the Equinox moon in a tiny cabin on the top of a mountain in Deep Creek because it felt like the kind of trip we could easily bring the baby. It is the second time this year that on a Sabbat we were away in the woods, ready to play.
Since, the weather has been fine. Fine like you mean when you are stunned by the lines of skin over jawbone, fine like you mean after a meal that leaves you body-sated more than any has in months in months. The outline of the air in the sky is almost clear enough to see, that is how pure, how vibrating the September light has been. Fine light. Exquisite. I can’t get enough of outside. Just how a harvest ought to feel, replete with the simplicity of passing days.
Now, dark moon. Er almost dark moon well not quite just yet. Every night the waning crescent rising later and thinner with less light above the tree line out my window. Casting illumine wakefulness through me entering my dreams. I hear my baby daughter from the kitchen with her dad. I haven’t had a proper circadian sleep cycle in many days. Her bedtime changing. 11 weeks old.
Still the light, full with the dancing presence of more than just warmth. Like breath it moves, becomes a finger taps my shoulder brushes through the back of my hair. We make plans for the Witches New Year and change them a dozen times. What if it’s too cold at night for the baby what if it’s wet so on. We shorten the trip by a full evening because the Memorial for Mcades is that Saturday. It would mean a trip to the upper shore. I will not attend, there was never a question. My will certain before my intentions are all the way clear, but now it’s absolute, I’m Mom. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie first words be a full woman. Be a full human. So I write, I plan child care, organize my office, envision the land at magic hour from the front porch, the Willow it’s own lovely town, little Willow gnomes and little Willow homes almost visible behind her lovely town hair.
Slowly the house comes together. In quiet when everyone’s at school and she naps, I revel at what we have done. Our oldest turns 16. Surprise parties and Homecoming. The first anniversary of papaw’s death.
Second Harvest is here, and too now the decline of light, the ushered whispers of waning dark moon, waning dark wheel of the Year nearing done. At the Veil the Ancestors come. Nostalgia curls in the melted center of me, my grandmother and godmother my two most dear female elders to whom I have always prayed I Iong for, memories of decades ago are clear in the fine light appearing from nothing, I long for being a girl again days. Behind them the wisps in the air of Mags, of Gretchen, Ellie too. I am limited in the ritual I can make and instead get outside every day. Take pictures as much as I can. The corn comes down. We gather river rocks. I get in the sea. The morning shadows grow extra long. Only the zinnias are left in the garden and the monarchs love them, showing up in bunches in full fall frock.
Last year on the Witches Moon I found out I was pregnant. This year’s last lunation of the Harvest season arrives Wednesday morning, bringing the Final Harvest Full Moon on October 20, traditional Samhain and its associated feast days and finally, lunar Samhain, the Celtic or Witches New Year on November 4. A moon for readying, releasing to make room for the dormancy of the Winter period to come. A time for readying and communicating. With Mama Nature, Mama Earth, Mama Moon, Mama Sea. With our Ancestors, around us, plant bound animal bound dreamspace spirits, blessed be.