Wishing Moon

A waning crescent moon

Step outside tonight, if the heavens are clear, and gaze up at slim crescent smiling down at you.  This fingernail in the sky shows that that the moon lies at least forty-five degrees behind the sun.  Also known as the “balsamic moon,” the sliver you do see is in the final lunar phase before the new moon tomorrow; it signals a time of rest and rejuvenation.  I need this moon.

Seven months.  It’s been seven months since we left Seattle and our year of cancer.  My sun-loving body rhythms haven’t yet returned, or maybe the anxiety that my daughter’s cancer will come back still haunts me at night.  Specters like these aren’t daytime creatures.  Regardless, I’ve made peace with my nighttime wakefulness and spend a lot of time staring upward, at the darkened ceiling that lives above the clouds.  At one time, I could identify only the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and the moon.  Today I count the constellations above me as a seasonal map and new way to mark time. 

Although I’ve always been a night owl and admirer of the moon, it’s never before felt like such a kind companion. A marvelous, mysterious thing, the moon is tied to sea currents and ocean tides, to ancient planting rituals, and seafaring explorers.  I’ve also found she’s an exceptional listener.  When I feel desperate or disheartened, night darkness wraps its arms around me, providing the kind of intimate shelter I need sometimes to cry, howl, or whimper.  But it’s the moon’s glow--nature’s nightlight--that keeps me from wallowing too deeply.  Just a few minutes of moonbathing is restorative and keeps monkey-mind chatter at bay.  I can shut out the worry for a short time, shelve my anxiety, feel the peace and calm of a quiet house.  Eyes skyward, the changing face of my moon friend assures me that life moves on, even if I feel stuck.  

Acupuncturists mark time differently, with pins and meridians.  During a recent “poking session” with my favorite healer, I learned about the Horary Clock.  I’d heard of it from Jan before because when making appointments, she sometimes pipes up, “Oh, good.  That’s heart hour,” or spleen or stomach.  The Horary Clock is a 24 hour clock that relates to energy pathways (meridians) and body systems.  

My interest in this energy clock has to do with an answer or explanation for my “wee bitty hour” situation: each night I wake up around the same time.  3:00 a.m., to be exact.  Sometimes I can go back to sleep, most nights I can’t.  For this purpose, I put a chair on the back lanai so that when the squirrels inside my brain won’t settle down or an anxiety attack sets in, I can go somewhere to sit and watch the stars.  The interesting thing I learned about the Horary Clock and my wee bitty waking hour is that 3:00 a.m. is the switchover time.  It’s when the old energy cycle ends and a new one begins, a little like the balsamic and new moon phases.  The old moon dies away in preparation for a new one.  

It’s a strange, liminal place of dying and resurrection.  A bit like New Year’s Eve at 11:50 p.m., it’s almost over but there is time to endure.                               

The human body is tuned into cycles of the moon.  As the old moon wanes, many people experience a physical dip in energy.  Strangely, as the physical dips, the mental peaks.  The right brain processes—expressive, creative, intuitive—peak as the moon shrinks. During this time of darkness, the moon rises before the dawn, when most of us are sound asleep and lost in a world of our own making.  Most of us. 

  

Each month I feel a pull from the dark, new moon.  While the rational part of my brain knows how important it is to rest during the balsamic phase, the creative fire in me pushes against my body.  Days and nights mix, a dreamlike mind set ablaze.  I take note because for me, the veil between the conscious and subconscious thins each month as the night sky darkens.  Time and space tango in an ecstatic dance of spirit, intention, and manifestation.  Poems come to me, ideas for short stories, plans for herb gardens, countries to visit.  I sort and purge memories, shaping and reshaping reality as I go.  What are my hopes, my dreams for the upcoming month?  In many ways, the balsamic moon is a dreaming or wishing moon.

Tonight is the last of the old moon.  The waning crescent is 29 days old and 365,791 km. away from the earth, and it is less than 1% illuminated.  What are my hopes for the next few days?  What are my fears at 3:00 a.m. when the Horary Clock strikes the change?  Immediate thoughts move to my daughter’s upcoming cancer scans.  My hope is that they are clean.  Clean as they can be.  I hope the spots on her lungs have not changed in size, that the bloodwork shows nothing of interest.  For next Wednesday, I hope that the hands of her surgeon are steady and sure.  I hope that my daughter sails through the operation with the strength of a young moon as it builds momentum and brightness in the night sky.  My wishing moon has a lot hanging on it tonight.