We are one day off from the full moon. Last night, the cloud cover here was sufficient to veil her, all that was visible a soft round glow, like a bride not yet ready to show her face to the world. It was enough to give the impression of a full moon, but she has a short distance to go yet.
In my own people’s way, we have left the nights of the Snowcrust Moon and are in the waxing cycle of the Broken Snowshoe Moon. In our lands, this season was still more winter than spring, and in the old time, by now the snowshoes would be well in need of repair. Climate change has altered all of that, of course; warming trends may well yet make the name for this month used by our brothers and sisters further west, the Sugarbushing Moon, more accurate. It is maple syrup season, after all.
Here, the moons are known differently. Oh, the people here have their own names for each month, in their own language, but they are not shared with the outside world, and the names do not follow the pattern that marks ours (nor that the dominant culture steals so effortlessly and thoughtlessly). But here, this month is very often notable for the end of the annual ceremonial closure, the point at which the Pueblo once again opens it walls to the outside world. More practically, it is the time of year when people turn their thoughts to cycles of planting and renewal, when burns are scheduled for those rare days when the wind rests, when people negotiate their turns to bring the water down.
Like March, April is, for me, one of the most difficult months, physically and otherwise. The unsettled and extreme weather wreak havoc upon my joints; too many markers of too much loss dot the calendar’s landscape, making memory a minefield of grief and other kinds of pain.
And yet, it is a month of renewal, too, one in which our discussions turn to which crops and medicines we need this year, when it will be time to till and turn the earth, when it will be time to sow the seeds in the soil, when it will be time to bring the water down — and to celebrate when the water comes of its own accord.
For now, if the features of this day hold, the moon will appear with her face veiled again tonight, modest and maidenly and still possessed of a fierce glow. Tomorrow, she will rise full and flowering, bright white light spilling across an already-fertile land.
The tides are her purview, and while we may not feel their pull here in any way identifiable to our weaker senses, they are as necessary to our world’s balance as the rain. Water is life, but so is the light. In the dark hours, her gaze renews our world.
~ Aji
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