In indigenous cultures the world over, the imagery of the moon is inextricably intertwined with that of women: of archetypal Woman, of feminine power, of female fertility, of elder- and cronehood. Traditions vary widely, with a great deal of overlap even among societies geographically far-flung. It is, no doubt, a function in part of simple biology: Moons and menses operate, generally speaking, on the same sort of monthly rotational cycle — and both menses (and its variants) and even the word month itself all grow out of the same linguistic roots as the word moon.
For the dominant culture, the word “moon” conjures all sorts of stereotypes in relation to our peoples. Perhaps the most common is the “many moons ago” locution that is solidly rooted in Native language dynamics but is today merely an expression of stereotypical Hollywood caricature, a mockery of what speakers of English saw as pidgin vocal expressions and stunted linguistic skills. If you’re using the phrase, whatever you think you’re intending, you’re doing just that: engaging in mockery.
This is also true of appropriating the practice of some peoples of giving months “moon” names. Not all Native cultures do this, although all presumably have a word for each month in their own respective languages, whether it’s a name rooted in a much older concept or one that is simply a reverse translation of English terms (a linguistic practice increasingly seen in some traditional languages, as words for contemporary concepts from outside of the culture become needed; an example of something our cultures could never have envisioned, and thus often have no specific terminology to describe, are computer-related words). In this part of Indian Country, for example, the traditional languages have their own words for the respective divisions of the year that we also call, in English, “months,” although the words ued may have nothing to do with the moon per se. Languages like my own make the link express: We are currently in what is known as the Spirit Moon (or, in some areas, the Great Spirit Moon); where I come from, February is known as the Bear Moon, while in other regions, it’s the Suckerfish Moon.
On a related note, Hollywoodized fiction also abounds with “Native” female characters with equally clichéd names, from the Little White Dove of the 1959 pop song to those with “Moon” in them, the better to denote gender, presumably. Ironic, that, since one of the most iconic and instantly recognizeable male Natives — albeit one whose name is mostly erased and forgotten — was Two Moons, the Cheyenne warrior chief who allegedly served as one of a pair of models for the U.S. Indian-head nickel.
But in our cultures, the gender and identity, whether of persons or more celestial beings, is always more complex.
The spirits who dwell in the heavens may be male, female, both, or neither. Individual persons may be male, female, both, or neither, for that matter. The word two-spirit, which is wholly a Native term, one that comes from my own language, has long been used to denote a person whose identity does not necessarily fall neatly into one half of the gender binary as the outside world commonly understands it. Some persons may possess male physical characteristics but identify, and are identified by their people, as women; the reverse is also the case. Some may be regarded as both, or as having an entirely different identity that exists beyond the binary boundary. And so while much of what I will discuss today in regard to women’s power in our cultures may refer to what the outside world regards as a “woman” in the physical sense of the word, it would be a mistake to think that that is the only definition. To many of our peoples, “woman” is a far broader, more complex category, and for ourselves, we understand it to encompass a spectrum of physical and other characteristics and ways of identifying, including entirely nonbinary ways of perceiving gender identity.
Still, the link between moon, both word and concept, and ideas of womanhood is inescapable. This is true all over the world, not merely in our own cultures. And as is also true all over the world, some societies practice traditions that refer explicitly to menstruation in one way or another. One obvious practice is the puberty rite, or puberty ceremony. Not all tribal cultures have them; among those that do, some may have them only for boys, or only for girls, or for both in different ways. For those that practice such coming-of-age ceremonies for young women, the rites usually accompany menarche, or a girl’s first menstrual period. They vary widely by culture and tradition: In some, the young woman is isolated for a specific length of time, attended with prayer and medicine; in others, she is also given specific instructions for what will now be required of her as a woman of her people (and for certain cultures, what new rights and privileges she has attained by virtue of her status as a woman). In some, it may include feasting, singing, dancing, and/or other celebration; in others, it may be a very quiet, largely private event. In still others, there are no such rites at all; it is merely an everyday event in the lives of individual girls as they cross that particular threshold of maturation.
Some indigenous cultures (and many colonial ones, too) place certain restrictions on the activities of women who are menstruating. It tends to be comprehensive, encompassing all of the years a woman is at least nominally of child-bearing age (i.e., from menarche until menopause). Among some peoples, it simply means that women may not engage in certain activities; very often, these are sacred or ceremonial activities. For others, women traditionally absented themselves from the rest of the people for the duration of her period, staying inside a lodge or other structure built specifically for that purpose. The reasoning for such isolation varied (and the reasons often overlapped, as well). Part of it is no doubted rooted in ordinary sanitation practices (because these are traditions that predate modern conveniences by millennia, but keep in mind that those amenities are often still notably absent from the circumstances of day-to-day life of many indigenous people). Part of it is also, unequivocally, rooted in a masculine “ick” factor (and that is true of cultures all over the world, even today). Part of it is rooted in what today we would call sexism, patriarchal notions about women’s capabilities and the willful misunderstanding of what menstruation actually entails: for example, the insulting notion that menstruating women are unequipped to manage their moods and therefore cannot be trusted to behave responsibly (a mindset found in public and private spheres all over the dominant culture); or the idea, something that is rather in the nature of a back-handed complement, that during menstruation, a woman’s power is at such a peak that she cannot be trusted with certain things because she would be unable to control that power, and thus risk destruction (more male fear). And then there are the cultures in which the women themselves prefer it: It’s a chance to get away from the rest of the world for a while, to spend time in the company of other women who understand the physical strains and constraints involved — and a chance to bond, gossip, relax, and simply be, free of the external pressures of the male presence. [I should also take this opportunity to point out that this has nothing to do with the non-Native “Red Tent” nonsense currently being billed as Native in white, New Age communities. The original Red Tent tradition is not nonsense at all, but indigenous to other lands and peoples; what is nonsense is the notion that this has anything at all to do with our Native peoples and ways on Turtle Island. It doesn’t.]
And there is what happens at menopause.
Again, none of this is universally nor inherently “Native.” Many other cultures around the world engage in such practices, whether formally or not. And among Native peoples, the point at which a woman becomes an elder may vary substantially between traditions, may or may not have anything to do with menopause, and may be a line that is virtually nonexistent. But for those who do, for example, engage in menstrual isolation practices or who restrict women of child-bearing age from other activities, menopause can be a significant line of demarcation: one that may be simultaneously liberating and fraught with new responsibility.
One example arises in the area of Medicine, with a capital “M” — the practices that encompass healing, ceremony, and other aspects of the sacred. Some cultures have formal Medicine Societies; others do not. Some keep to strict guidelines with regard to who may be a “medicine person,” or even a “healer” of lesser status, and the biggest line separating them is often one of gender. Some cultures permit both men and women (and people who identify in a nonbinary way) to be Medicine Society members; in others, it’s a male-only group. In some, women, like men, can be healers or spiritual leaders at virtually any age and stage of life, provided that they have both the skill and the calling to do so. In others, women can assume such roles and responsibilities only after menopause, when, it’s assumed, their power will be less volatile.
To the ordinary person of the dominant culture reading this, it all sounds very sexist — misogynist, even. But for women of those cultures, of the blood and ancestry and history and tradition, it may or may not be. And, as with most indigenous cultures, practices the outside world may frown upon may have had benign origins: Women of childbearing age often needed as much free time as possible to birth, raise, and mind their children, and others as well, since child-rearing was often a communal effort. Once one is known as a healer, the impositions upon one’s time and own well-being can be drastic.
Then, too, many of our cultures traditionally revered those who attained elder status, the depth and breadth of their experience, the decades of accumulated wisdom they could offer to the people. As a practical matter, it certainly makes good logical sense to treat elderhood as a natural repository of wisdom. This tendency among indigenous peoples is often coupled with an inherent respect for women that may appear to differ substantially from the way the dominant culture defines it, but in many ways often goes much deeper. And so, for many of our cultures, Grandmother status (whether one actually has grandchildren or not) is one that accords great respect and honor. [And while I’m on this topic, I should add another notation here about my use of the word “crone” in the first sentence, above: “Crone” motifs are not a part of our ways, either, despite what New Age white traditions will tell you. The very word “crone” comes from a a grouping of like words found in Old North French, Middle English, and Middle Dutch that originate in the french word for carrion — literally, “dead flesh.” It has been reclaimed in some Pagan and related circles now, and is adopted as a term of honor. We reclaim certain terms ourselves for use within our own cultures, and the practice of so doing by any given culture is theirs and theirs alone to make. But the word “crone” (and its variants, such cronehood and croning) is one that is wholly European, and does not belong to our peoples.]
And it becomes, in this indirect way, another sort of link to the moon.
I mentioned yesterday that there is a way of analyzing the notion of the moon as a symbol of feminine identity and power that exposes it (in some cultures and contexts) as anti-feminist and even anti-feminine. The link is precisely this: The light of the moon is not, or so science tells us, the product of the moon at all. Rather, it is merely the reflected light of the sun. In some cultures (not all) that identify the sun as male and the moon as female, there’s another reflection at work here, too — the notion that women’s identity and power is merely a (pale and weak) reflection of her man’s. The most obvious, of course, comes from Genesis, in which Eve was created from Adam’s rib, to be “an help meet for him,” as the King James Version put it so succinctly. In other words, the modern archetypal understanding of woman as reflection of man comes not from our cultures at all, but from the religious tradition that a majority of the dominant culture practices.
If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably already guessed that we don’t view either moon imagery or women’s power within such frames. For us, the moon’s status as Grandmother is something that exists outside the bounds of human interactions and prejudices, one that refers to her place in the heavens in both literal and metaphorical terms. It’s a term of honor and respect, one that denotes our acknowledgment and appreciation of her gifts to us.
And these gifts are many. The most obvious, of course, is light in the dark hours, although her light is variable in strength and visibility, and on some days (like those upcoming) entirely absent. We know well that nothing is promised to us, and that dangers lurk in the dark, and whatever light she shares is a blessing, one to be honored and cherished for its ability to make our lives better. Here, in the land of the Red Willow, she also lives and works in concert with the rest of the natural world: with mountain and sky, with the aspens and the red willow itself, a being who dwells in the realm of the spirits and yet engages wholly with our world.
And, of course, illumination is a gift in the world of metaphor, as well. Yes, our physical path needs light in the darkness if we are to have any hope of navigating it, but, so, too does the path of mind and spirit. And so motifs that illustrate — one might even so illuminate — the concept and act of providing light in the darkness, of shedding light upon a darkened path, becomes a symbol of not merely information, not only knowledge, but also of wisdom. And for cultures that understand certain forms of light as feminine, such dynamics also become associated with a distinctly female form of wisdom.
Now, some may argue that such an interpretation necessarily involves a nurturing spirit; they would cite, no doubt, women’s generally perceived ability (and to some, duty) to bear and raise children. Some would also argue that it’s a softer, more loving form of “wisdom.”
Of course, that all depends on how one defines “loving.”
And I would also point out that anyone who would take such a reductionist approach to the concept of feminine wisdom has never met the indigenous warrior women I know.
Being nurturing and being fierce are not, of course, mutually exclusive; far from it, in fact. One need look no further than a mother bear for proof. The same is true of most human mothers. But one also need not have children to be loving or nurturing; some are tasked by desire or circumstance with nurturing the community as a whole rather than individual children. And sometimes, the clearest examples of our love for our people lies in our strength and our warrior spirits.
It’s what prompted Wings to create, many years ago, the signature series that is perhaps closest to his heart: the Warrior Woman. I’ve written about her here many times before; in her very first iteration, she was a tribute to his mother, in honor of her own courage and strength. As I said then:
Wings has always said that woman are much stronger, much tougher warriors than men are. From a traditional man from a culture that is openly patriarchal in structure, that may seem a shocking admission to outsiders. In reality, it’s simply a recognition of what is — and a lesson to the outside world that while traditional cultures may define gender roles (and other aspects of life) differently from the way the dominant culture does, that does not somehow invalidate them or lessen their inherent value.
Wings addressed this disconnect head-on in the interpretive text that accompanied one grouping of silverwork pieces in his recent one-man show:
It is easy to forget that a wall, a home, a structure, a society endures only through the strength of the cornerstone that serves as its foundation. So it is with our people: The public face is male, but the underlying strength and support, the cornerstones, are the women.
For Wings, this has always been a given: that women are the real strength of the people. It’s one reason that his art has always been oriented, in part, toward imagery and signifiers that are linked with women and women’s identity. But a decade and a half ago, that orientation took a much more personal turn. The result was the Warrior Woman, a pin that would become one of his signature series . . . perhaps the signature series, the one closest to his heart. In his own words:
I created the first in my signature series of pins, the Warrior Woman, as a gift for my mother fifteen years ago, to honor her courage, strength, and heart in her battle with diabetes. She is now with Spirit, and in her memory I continue to create others, each unique, and each to honor the strength and bravery of women.
And, of course, as is clear from the photo above, one feature of every Warrior Woman is the moon that she holds in her left hand. It’s a nod in the direction of feminine power broadly defined: not merely that possessed by human women, but also one of its sources, and its immanence in other female-associated spirits.
In Wings’s work, there are other ways of denoting the power of the moon, beyond photographing her image and even beyond her express ap
pearance in the hand of the Warrior Woman, or in phases as shown in the commissioned necklace that appears above. At left is another commissioned work, entitled Radiant Moon, made with a rainbow 
moonstone as its focal point, and indeed, moonstone has long been one of his favorites for use in silverwork where he chooses not to use the more traditional turquoise.
Then there are the earrings at right, which would seem at first glance to have nothing to do with the moon. However, he completed them on the day of 2015’s Blood Moon, and the garnet orbs at the top represent her when she is garbed in rare crimson. The name of the pair was Blood Moon Skies, a direct tribute to our Grandmother’s appearance on that night.
But one of my favorite works that uses the imagery the moon is one, ironically, that calls to mind for me a terrible occurrence from a few years back. You may remember the announcement made by the federal government some half-dozen or so years ago about a “scientific” endeavor involving both NASA and the application of military hardware and power: The U.S. thought it would be a good idea to bomb the moon’s surface, to see . . . well, I’m not sure anyone had any kind of solid idea what such an act might find, but nevertheless, this was considered something useful.
And so, military-grade bombs were lobbed at our Grandmother’s body, her face, her soul. For peoples like us, the feeling of violence, of violation, was indescribable. People offered prayers for her, to her, asking for forgiveness for this act of violence committed against her, partly in the hope that it would not produce a catastrophe for all of us. Many of us were in mourning, in the same way that we would be in the event of an oil spill polluting the earth and the waters — or in the event of injury to a loved one.
But the moon is strong. We are like her in that way, we indigenous women. Whatever colonial forces lob at us, we stand strong and resilient, continuing to shine whatever light we can muster upon the path for the people.
And sometimes, we are rewarded with a special gift from our Grandmother: a view of her in full, as she comes close to those of us bound to this earth, the better to show us her face. It is illumination in full, a gift of dreams and visionary wisdom. This is no mere reflected light.
~ Aji
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