I love this writer’s beautiful waxing (hee hee) on the moon
“The moon can’t help it. It’s only an object. The moon doesn’t mean to set things sloshing– in every ocean’s basin, in every female’s uterus, in every poet’s jar of ink, in every madman’s drool.
“It’s only a paper moon/Sailing over a cardboard sea.” The moon can’t help it if the best toys are made of paper. And the best metaphors are made of cheese.
They say that lost objects end up on the moon. Is a siren responsible for a sailor’s taste in song?
The moon can’t help it. It’s only a fat dumb object, the pumpkin of the sky. The moon’s a mess, to tell the truth. A burnt-out cinder the color of dishwater; a stale gray cookie covered with scars. Every loose rock in our solar system has taken a punch at it. It’s been stoned, scorched, golf-clubbed, and inflicted with boils. If lovers have chosen this brutalized derelict, this tortured dustball, this pitted and pimpled parcel of wasteland as the repository of their dreams, the moon can’t help it.
Solar enthusiasts are fond of pointing out that the moon merely reflects the light of the sun. Yes, the moon is a mirror. It can’t help it. The moon is the original mirror, the first to refuse to distort CHOICE. Objects can’t think. They employ other methods. But we human beings use objects to think with. And when it comes to the moon, you are free to think as you choose.
If the moon hung over Fort Blackberry like an omen, like a cheap literary device, it couldn’t help it. The moon just hung there…”
– Chapter 103 from Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins
And as it was just recently the full moon, I will trail Robbins’ literary path with a current take. The moon might not help it, but I will choose to see it like this;
The moon of 3 days ago can’t help it if it was spinning in Cancer, if it was crawling with space crabs, if it cyclically marked the last full moon of my favourite version of a 13 moon calendar year (haven’t quite figured this out, but I think it might start at the new moon after Imbolc, a pagan mid-winter celebration at the beginning of February) (chunky words there I apologize).
This January full moon couldn’t help it if it brought purple to the hearth. If it encouraged you to nest. If it reminded you that soft blankets are everything. If it was the celtic knot shoelace to your best flying dream. The full moon couldn’t help it. It reminded us of red bricks, of the sweet truth set ablaze in a wood burning stove. It lit the path to empires built from cuddles. But it couldn’t help it. It was spinning through Cancer. It was crabby but it was drawn in, in the best sense. It was the magic of soothing structure, sacred containment, of the Right Plant Pot. Of pinching it in. Of a righteous hard shell. Of a home and a space to be and to become, beyond any survival concern. The moon was winking out doors with magic locks, candles with sacred sigils. It was cooking up visions of a mystery school, twinkling there below the skies of time. It was singing out lullabies about the circles that keep us high, about delicious fresh cake iced with a diamond eye, abut forest fairy hammocks, about portals hidden in plain sight in the wood kitchen beam, about soft kisses that melt you like butter. This moon was singing out the magic of the fire square, of a healthy microbiome. It just couldn’t help it. The moon is always up to something.
Sometimes I postpone my moon ceremony (nature is meaooningful) because I am tired or I fear transformation. I have yet to light my candle for it but I know what it is fo(u)r.
I found myself dancing with women and sisters this lunar nite lite cycle.