Under a Full Moon.

Nightfall at Rapunzel’s, some days ago now.

Edit: this was written last night, on a strangely balmy evening, under a full moon. I was deliriously tired, (which is perhaps one of my favourite times to write – in that dreamy, twilight haze). It’s cold and raining now. Spring is a fickle mistress…

It seems to be the case, that the more I’m out in the hurly-burly, the more my mind turns to domestickals. That eternal quest for balance that seems to pursue me.

I’d rather read and write than clean. But I need a clean and peaceful environment in order to think straight. So…you see my dilemma.

It’s Spring. It truly is Spring, even though the calendar says otherwise*, and even when the weather packs it in and turns brutish, it’s happening. I walk with a friend, and we’re pursued by the aching fragrance of early Spring flowers. It hits us like old memories: absurd, lost love and wild hopes; but it’s also a promise of all to come, because youth deludes itself that it’s the only dream worth having. And we don’t buy that lie for a minute.

And today Spring had her turbo-booster on. Warm gustiness that whips the hair and sends skirt billowing at scandalous altitudes. There’s the kind of sunshine that compels all the creatures outside to bask in long-absent warmth. My courtyard resembled a Roman bath at one point, with dog and felines lounging around, corpulent and sun-drunk.

Curtains, couch throws, and a Spanish shawl (that I use as a curtain) are tossed into the wash with lavender water, and spritzed with sun, wind, and jasmine. I plump pillows, and stretch to clear cobwebs from the rafters. I collect bouquets of now-dwindling red camellias, along with the first precious daffodils of the season. The yellow I crave. I even clean out my fridge, (which was more of an emergency evacuation than a clean).

I light a sage bundle, and whisper homage to the Old Ones. The smoke lingers, drifting through the hall, hanging louche and sinuous in the sunlight.

Not being a Summer Person,** I almost feel traitorous – embarrassed by my susceptibility to Spring’s seductions. After all, it’s an augur of the cursed heat to come. But Spring. It has, and always will be, I suspect, my moste secrect, beloved season. Spring is tenderness, trust, hopefulness, and unabashed Romanticism. I’m always besotted by the season. Hopeless, I know. It always makes me…remember. It shocks me into remembrance of what a life, and the living of it means. Sensual, dangerous, rapturous, brief.

Even the quietest of lives can contain hearts and minds that are limitless in their yearnings and imaginings. That which is often designated as “wild”, and exciting by the wider culture, and its feverish pursuit of the next high, feels to me, conservative, unimaginative, and tedious. Each to their own, hey?

And I feel that cynicism is pervasive, but that Beauty is its antidote. Beauty defies fear and nurtures compassion. It’s no lightweight distraction or delusion. It’s the real, divine deal. But I’m no priestess.

And Beauty comes in so many forms, hey? Spring offers its effortless glut of all that’s lovely. Dancing with beloveds around an outdoor fire under a rococo sky that Time would hold still for.

Now that the wind swings around from the cruel, scouring Antarctic, to the ancient, fiery and belligerent North; I succumb without hesitation. I throw the doors and windows open…inviting it all within. Daring the siren song.

All around me there are flowering plums, releasing their abundant charms to the winds, just as the golden wattles begin to wane and fall. When it’s properly dark, I join the scuttling confederacy of lunatics who dance their rapt devotionals beneath the moon. I ask Her what she wants from me, born as I was beneath one of her wicked, intemperate moods. She’s not as chaste as all those dead men insist. She’s as sybaritic and deranged as those of us she incites to lunacy. The joke’s on us, but she wants to laugh with us, and let us know we’re never alone. Just look up and peek beneath her skirting clouds.

I offer her my sore mother’s heart, a libation of dark red wine, and this bewitching contralto.*** The music arches over the garden, stirring the aching shadows, and speaking to the moss, and mountain dark. An enormous ‘possum, holding a large chunk of pineapple skin, sits bolt upright and stares at me from the compost at the back of the garden; haughtily bearing witness to this swaying woman, who sings to the moon.

We acknowledge one another’s freakdom, quite cheerfully. And I can’t bear to leave the night, so filled with story, spirit, and newborn growth. There are ferny promises, whispered.

By day, I tend seeds that I’ve sown that are beginning to emerge, (peony poppies, shasta daisies, bergamot); and schedule writing and research jobs, always walking the line between precarity and plenitude. And knowing now, that despite everything, and that even though I don’t court upheaval, I am supremely adapted to instability and change. Perhaps that’s why Spring is my season after all.

Wishing you a beautiful weekend. And the brightest and best of Moons. xx



*The indigenous wisdom says otherwise – we’re entering the windy season, which is a lot like Spring.

**I do mention this, quite a bit, don’t I?

***my favourite of hers. She channels something raw, and wretched, and utterly sublime. This is my song for the Full Moon. Utterly required at the moment.

10 thoughts on “Under a Full Moon.

  1. I never go by what the calendar tells me the season should be. The land and the air tell you. Autumn has been hovering here for a while so it makes sense to me that Spring is doing the same with you. I’m a Spring Born so I love that season. I like the idea of the wind coming to you from the wild unknowable Antarctic.


    1. No – I agree, CT – the calendar is altogether too rigid for Nature, hey? And I’m born in Spring also, (October – which is mid-Spring in these parts). Spring fever, for me, is entirely irresistible : ) xx


  2. Oh what a magical inspiring post, thank you my dear:) here we have just had our lunar Lammas and the lady shone brightly through the night upon our bed. She tells me that in despair there is beauty , in pain there is life. I don’t always hear her through the strange days that terminal cancer offers both patient and wife but I do try and now and again I feel her love surround me and tell me the words that my Nan always used. The goddess never gives us more than we can handle. Even if some days the load feels unbearable. I wish you a vibrant Spring, a joyous family Spring full of inspiration and love xxx


    1. So lovely to “see” you merrymoggie : ) Those are beautiful, wise words, you offer. All the more soulful and valued because they are not said lightly.

      And I always feel it to be a rare and added blessing when the moon shines on us through the night. I wish you a gentle, golden Autumn, lovely one. Many blessings and hugs to you. xxx


  3. yes, spring—although it’s not ‘my’ season either, it has an undeniable pull. that smell! composed, i am guessing, of warming earth and greening foliage and flowers, of course; if they could bottle that, i’d buy it. the fickleness of spring—that on again, off again thing it does with warmth and breezes followed by cold and wind, back and forth…well, that’s pretty much like all the love affairs i’ve ever had. (the better ones. the really bad ones were like crossing a desert with leaky water bottles.) but it would be churlish not to love spring and all the rebirth and flowers. there is something so hopeful in it all, a life force that stirs even the most uncertain hearts.

    and the moon…we have such a kinship with waxing and waning. to see it writ large in the sky is sort of comforting to me. i hope it was for you.

    calendars, at least the modern ones, are rubbish. the seasons for me are the older ones, echoed in the quarter and cross-quarter days, that proceed with the land and the stars and the weather. that foolish thing that says winter is just beginning when it’s actually midwinter day, or insists that midsummer is the beginning of summer, is no useful calendar at all. when violets bloom, that is spring. maybe even earlier, when the snowdrops peep out…then you know that winter is ending and spring is beginning, no matter what that travesty hanging on the wall says…

    may all the seeds you plant turn toward the sun, dance under the moon with you, and bloom wildly…


    1. Wouldn’t it be something to bottle Spring!? I’m sure many have tried, although I think it may be the trickiest season of all to blend…despite its seeming “lightness”, it’s possibly the most complex and unsettling.

      And I wholeheartedly agree – observing nature’s signs and signals is a far more accurate and intuitive way of discerning the seasons. I only bother with my Roman calendar for dates and appointments. It really doesn’t hold much meaning at all in regards to the seasons – both within and without. And there’s something deeply reassuring and rhythmic about tuning into the cross-quarters. Except for Lammas here, (we’ve had chats about Lammas in our parts of the world, hey? ; ) I often wish I could spend Lammas in Britain, because there it makes so much more sense. Here in Australia it can feel a bit like a parched and arid caricature of itself. But I have an idea this time ’round about how I might approach that one.

      Dancing with you, from afar, m’lovely. xxx


  4. yes….not being a summer person, either, i still am a devout slave to spring. despite the hideous humidity today, i can smell a faint whiff of autumn in the air. i’ve never known the land to follow the calendar. although i do confess to petulant wails when unpleasant weather appears when it “shouldn’t” .;)

    everything you’ve said is my heart. xoxo


    1. The seasonal slips and changes happen so quickly here. I find Spring here, especially, all too brief. Just when it’s fresh, and cold, and there are lurid shades of new green everywhere; suddenly there can come a blast of heat and wind off the desert, and everything becomes parched and fried. And then it’s effing Summer.

      I love those first whiffs of Autumn in the air…they are every bit as hopeful as Spring : ) xxx


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